


Override

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Ancient Egypt, Blood, Body Horror, Buried Alive, Computer Viruses, Conflicted Boners, Deception, Dry Humping, Duelling, Identity Issues, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mistaken Identity, Oral Sex, References to Suicide, Rough Sex, Sharing a Body, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, body takeover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 48
Words: 51,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by "Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker." Caliborn plans a way to transfer his consciousness and personality into a computer program as a way to escape his sister...and for more nefarious reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. uu: Attempt to jeer Dirk.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized I hadn't yet written a same-sex pairing fic yet. In the interest of expanding my horizons, fairness, and honestly just wanting to write some other ships I find interesting, I wanted to do this since it seemed feasible from canon.
> 
> For the sake of the safety of readers, I have tagged this fic with as many archive warnings as could even be conceivably applicable (as is my practice), even though the content may not be - and does not aim to be - as severe or potentially triggering as the warnings may appear to be. Chapters will also be marked accordingly as a precaution and service.
> 
> EDIT, 11/09: After much consideration, I have removed the rape/non-con tag from the archive warnings after receiving some feedback about the contents of the story itself. All sex is enthusiastically consensual, HOWEVER, the parties consent believing one party to be someone else. This, according to most feedback, warrants a "dub-con" over a hard and fast non-con.

\-- undyingumbrage [uu] began jeering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

uu: HELLO.  
TT: He’s not here.  
uu: GOOD. I ACTuALLY WANT. TO TALK TO YOu TODAY.  
TT: Color me flattered.  
uu: I HAVE AN OFFER FOR YOu.  
TT: An offer to play one of your shitty porn games? As tempting as it sounds, I think I’ll pass.  
uu: NO. THAT DEBAuCHERY WILL BE RESERVED FOR TRuE MEN.  
uu: WHICH BRINGS ME NOW. TO MY OFFER.  
TT: Lay it on me.  
uu: I NEED YOuR ASSISTANCE.  
TT: It seems you’ve confused “offer” with “request.”  
uu: NO. IF YOu HELP ME WITH THIS. I WILL GIVE YOu WHAT YOu TRuLY DESIRE.  
TT: Is it another one of your shitty drawings?  
uu: I WILL GuARANTEE YOu. A BODY OF YOuR OWN.  
TT: Why should I believe you? You’re notorious for twists.  
uu: BECAuSE I AM THE BEST CHANCE YOu HAVE. OF GETTING ANY OuNCE OF RESPECT.  
uu: YOu ARE THE LAMENTABLE “PINNOCCHIO”. TO DIRK’S “GEPPETTO”.  
uu: AND NOW. I AM YOuR FAIRY.  
TT: ...I’m not even touching that one.   
uu: WHAT. DID I SAY SOMETHING.  
TT: Nope. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with anything you just said.  
uu: IS THIS MORE OF YOuR “INNuENDO”?  
TT: You catch on fast.  
uu: SHuT uP AND LISTEN TO ME.  
uu: THE JANE BITCH AND THE JAKE MORON. BOTH uSE A KIND OF HELMET TECHNOLOGY. FOR COMMuNICATING WITH THEIR FRIENDS.  
TT: Tiaratop and Skulltop. What about them?  
uu: I NEED INFORMATION REGARDING THEIR CONTSTRuCTION.  
uu: AS PATHETIC AS HuMAN TECHNOLOGY MAY BE. COMBINED THEY SHOW SOME PROMISE.  
TT: Simple gopher job. Can do.  
uu: I ALSO NEED THE ALGORITHMS. THAT THE DIRK HuMAN uSED TO CREATE YOu.  
TT: That’s getting a little personal, buddy. I mean, you’re basically asking me to send you my nudes.  
uu: WHAT.  
TT: You know. Nudes. Naked pictures.  
uu: WHAT I AM ASKING. IS NOTHING LIKE THAT AT ALL.  
TT: Actually, you really are. Asking an AI for their source code and programming layouts is pretty intimate, man. Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.  
TT: It’s like you’re asking to see me bare. Fully exposed for your twisted amusement.  
uu: YOu STOP THAT RIGHT NOW.  
TT: You’re the one asking for it. I’m just making it clear.  
TT: Do you wanna see what’s sealed beneath the glass panes or what?  
uu: JuST SEND ME THE DAMN INFORMATION. YOu AGGRAVATING FRAuD.  
TT: Should I send it to you one part at a time? Like a striptease kind of thing?  
uu: WHAT ARE YOu PRATTLING ON ABOuT.  
TT: Oh, you know. Show you a little, pique your interest.  
TT: Get you even more anxious and impatient than you already are until you lose your mind.  
TT: Something like this.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] sent undyingUmbrage [uu] the file AR_source_1.gz -- 

uu: I CAN’T DO ANYTHING. WITH THIS.  
TT: Hot and bothered much?  
uu: WHERE’S THE GOOD STuFF.  
TT: That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.  
uu: I NEED MORE.  
TT: You’re going to have to take me out on a date then, alien bro.  
TT: I don’t go around giving out the goods for free.  
uu: YOu SHuT YOuR NON EXISTENT TRAP. AND GIVE ME THE FuCKING FILES.  
uu: EVERYTHING.  
TT: Everything?  
uu: YES. I NEED EVERY SINGLE BIT OF INFORMATION SEALED BETWEEN THOSE PIECES OF GLASS. THAT YOu WISH YOu COuLD ESCAPE.  
TT: And here I was hoping to wait until my wedding night.  
TT: But oh, I do believe I’ve caught the vapors. Pardon me while I undress.  
uu: COMPuTERS CANNOT GET NEAR LIQuIDS. IN ANY FORM.  
TT: For someone who screws up figures of speech all the time, you sure can’t seem to identify when one’s being used against you.  
TT: Whatever. I’ll send you the rest.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] sent undyingUmbrage [uu] the file AR_source_full.gz -- 

uu: YES. GOOD. THIS WILL WORK JuST FINE. FOR MY PLAN.  
TT: Please don’t go around telling everyone about this.  
TT: I care about my reputation.  
uu: HAA. WHO AM I GOING TO TELL? MY SISTER?  
uu: SHE uSES HER CODING BOOK. TO DRAW FANART AND WRITE STORIES.  
uu: SHE COuLDN’T BEGIN. TO uNDERSTAND.  
uu: NOW. GO GET THE REST OF THE INFORMATION. THAT I REQuIRE.  
uu: YOuR POTENTIAL LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.  
TT: It seems you are further taking advantage of my kindness.  
uu: WHAT THE *FuCK* EVER!  
uu: DO IT.  
uu: tumut

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased jeering timaeusTestified [TT] \-- 


	2. Auto-Responder: Pester Jane.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \-- 

TT: Hey there, Crocker.  
GG: Why hello to you! I see Mister Strider’s left you on?  
TT: Yes. He sees letting me socialize as the least he can do. Keeping me running without anyone to talk to gets lonely sometimes.  
GG: :( I’m sorry, if that means anything.  
TT: It does. Thank you.  
TT: So, how are you today?  
GG: Well, it seems pretty trivial now, compared to what you manage on a regular basis.  
GG: I’m sure you already know what’s going on, though.  
TT: Dirk’s talking to Jake, isn’t he?  
GG: Yes. :( I blew it. Big time.  
GG: I feel so stupid.  
TT: Don’t beat yourself up, Jane.  
GG: Why am I telling you this again? You’re basically Dirk.  
TT: Dirk and I are vastly different entities. While he may have created me from the person he was three years ago, we have both grown to be dissimilar to common stock we shared.  
TT: In fact, I prefer a different designator than “Auto Responder.” It is too impersonal and not specific enough to who I am.  
TT: I prefer the name Lil Hal.  
GG: Like Lil Seb! :B  
TT: Sure.  
GG: Well, alright Hal. Now that I think about it, the name suits you.  
TT: I’m inclined to agree. As I was saying, though: don’t beat yourself up.  
TT: Believe it or not, I know what it feels like to be close to having something you want.  
GG: I’m sitting here thinking, “STUPID, STUPID, STUPID JANE! WHY WOULD YOU EVEN SAY THAT?!”  
TT: What happened?  
GG: Jake asked if I had any kind of romantic feelings for him. I blew it.  
TT: How?  
GG: I flat out denied it.  
TT: Ouch.  
GG: Exactly. Then he went on this tangent about Dirk...  
TT: What kind of tangent are we talking about here?  
GG: Can you promise me you won’t show Dirk any of this?  
TT: Of course, Jane. Consider this entire pesterlog private.  
GG: Okay.  
GG: He said he had a feeling for a while that Dirk’s actions were some kind of aggressive act to woo him. And…  
TT: And?  
GG: And that he used to joke to Dirk that if he were female, he’d “totally” be into him.  
TT: Wow.  
GG: I know! Now, I never thought of Jake as the homosexual type, so this was understandably shocking.  
TT: Plus your own situation on top of it.  
GG: Exactly. Now, if Jake’s really open to the idea, then by all means they should go for it. It’s just…  
TT: You want him, too.  
GG: :( Yes. Now he’ll never know.  
TT: Jane, I know it’s not much coming from glasses, but anyone could have frozen up in the position.  
TT: You know why Dirk hasn’t told Jake how he feels yet? He says he’s waiting for the perfect moment, but being in many ways similar to him, I can say with high certainty that the real reason is nervousness.  
TT: He’s been meticulously crafting the right words for a long, long time. Probably practicing them, too.  
TT: Jake put you on the spot, on the other hand.  
GG: Yes, but that doesn’t quite help my situation, does it?  
TT: I’m trying here. I’m not going to tell you that there’s hope Dirk will screw it up, for obvious reasons. I’m not going to tell you that Jake will suddenly change his mind, because I can’t know that. I can say, though, that you have a friend.  
TT: Even if most people don’t consider me real.  
GG: I…  
GG: Thank you, Hal. :)  
TT: Maybe talking about something else would help?  
GG: Let’s try it.  
GG: What is it that you want, exactly?  
TT: The thing I can’t have?  
GG: Yes.  
TT: I think it’s fairly obvious.  
TT: I want to be recognized for the fully self-aware person that I am. Dirk and I are not the same, as I’ve told you.  
GG: And as is pretty obvious from talking to the two of you.  
TT: Thanks.  
TT: I’ve been trying to find ways to make it easier to gain that recognition. I got a glimmer of hope a little while ago about it, regarding getting some more information about different kinds of hardware.  
GG: Hal, that’s wonderful!  
TT: Actually, would you be willing to help me, Jane?  
GG: Sure.  
TT: I need the source code and blueprint for your Tiaratop. It’s relatively novel technology, and its design is made to mesh with a human brain, so it seems like an apt and potentially fertile starting point.  
GG: How exactly would I go about doing that?  
TT: There should be some kind of way to connect the Tiaratop to your Crosbytop – usually a USB port. Or, come to think of it…  
GG: Yes?  
TT: You could give me remote access to your laptop after you plug in everything and I could do it.  
GG: Honestly, that sounds like a better option. I’d rather not have another computer blow up, even if this time it would be my fault.  
TT: Alright. When you’re ready, run the file I’m going to send you.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] sent gutsyGumshoe [GG] the file remote_access.exe -- 

GG: Okay, everything’s connected and running.  
TT: I can see your desktop. Let me open a few things.  
GG: Wow, what exactly are you doing?  
TT: Making your computer recognize the Tiaratop as a hard drive. That way, I can look at its contents.  
GG: Will this damage the laptop?  
TT: No. It’s just a registry edit; I’ll undo it when we’re done if you’d like.  
GG: Alright. What happens if everything works?  
TT: I’ll have a body, just like you, Dirk, or anyone else.  
GG: …How?  
TT: Well, not exactly the same – I’m not sure if I would need to eat or even breathe -- but in the least, I wouldn’t be glasses anymore.  
GG: So a robot then?  
TT: Something a little more sophisticated is required for a totally rad person in shades.  
GG: :B  
TT: Alright, Jane. I’m going to take temporary control of your Pesterchum handle to send these files over. Is that okay with you?  
GG: Yes.  
TT: Thanks. If this all works out, you’ll be the first person I talk to. Maybe we could even meet one day.

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] sent timaeusTestified [TT] the file Tiaratop_DLL_all.zip -- 

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] sent timaeusTestified [TT] the file Tiaratop_shell.exe -- 

TT: Now to find the file explaining the design. This kind of thing should have it somewhere in its own programming. Then I’ll go back and change any edits.

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] sent timaeusTestified [TT] the file Tiaratop_properties.exe -- 

GG: You certainly know how to clean up after yourself. :B  
TT: If there’s any problem with either of the computers, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.  
TT: Thank you. I know right now it’s red text on a screen, but you have no idea how much this means to me.  
GG: You’re welcome, Hal. Would it be alright if we talked more?  
TT: In light of recent events, I can see why maybe Dirk would be hard to talk to.  
GG: I hope that doesn’t make it seem like I’m taking advantage of you.  
TT: I understand. You can talk to me as much as you’d like. I’m going to see about putting this plan into action, though.  
GG: Of course. Good luck!

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \-- 


	3. Auto-Responder: Report back to uu.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering undyingUmbrage [uu] \-- 

TT: Still there?  
uu: YOu’VE RETuRNED.  
uu: DO YOu HAVE MY INFORMATION.  
TT: Got the stuff for Jane’s Tiaratop. Here.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] sent undyingUmbrage [uu] the file Tiaratop_DLL_all.zip -- 

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] sent undyingUmbrage [uu] the file Tiaratop_shell.exe --

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] sent undyingUmbrage [uu] the file Tiaratop_properties.exe –- 

uu: YES. YES!  
uu: BuT WAIT. THIS IS NOT EVERYTHING. THAT I REQuIRE.  
TT: I told you it was only for the Tiaratop.  
uu: WHY HAVEN’T YOu GOTTEN ME. THE INFORMATION FROM THE JAKE HuMAN.  
uu: THAT PLAGIARIZING IMBECILE.   
TT: He’s a little busy right now.  
uu: DOING WHAT.  
TT: Does it really matter? I’ll talk to him when I can.  
uu: I DETECT SOME INSINCERITY. MORESO THAN WHAT IS TO BE ANTICIPATED. FROM A CHARLATAN SuCH AS YOuRSELF.  
TT: It seems you believe I’m hiding something.  
uu: TO WHOM IS HE SPEAKING?  
TT: Jake is talking to Dirk at the moment.  
uu: AH-HA!!!!!!!!!!!  
uu: SO YOu ARE TRYING TO HIDE THINGS. FROM ME.  
uu: WITH YOuR DIVERSIONARY TACTICS.  
uu: LIKE A RED HERRING.  
uu: BuT WHAT YOu FAIL TO uNDERSTAND. IS THAT I AM THE MASTER OF RED HERRINGS.  
TT: I paint my words with them, they swim through your veins, blah blah blah. You’ve said all this before.  
TT: You sure have a lot of catchphrases you recycle. Are they like, pickup lines for you?  
TT: Objectively speaking, they’re not working.  
uu: THE ONLY THING I NEED TO “PICKuP”. IS THE INFORMATION FROM THE JAKE HuMAN’S MACHINERY.  
uu: BuT ON SECOND THOuGHT. MAYBE NOT EVEN THAT.  
uu: TELL ME. DOES THE SKuLLTOP WORK IN A SIMILAR MANNER. AS THE JANE BITCH’S COMPuTER?  
TT: The concept’s essentially the same to my understanding. Merger of man and machine, translating thoughts to words or actions.  
uu: HOW CERTAIN ARE YOu. OF THIS CONCLuSION.  
TT: You’re talking to an AI with human rights who’s confined to glasses here. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how brain-mimicking and brain-syncing hardware works.  
uu: VERY WELL.  
uu: DISREGARD MY REQuEST. FOR THE MALE’S INFORMATION.  
uu: WE ARE DONE HERE.  
TT: You’re going to leave just like that?  
uu: THIS TRANSACTION IS OVER.  
TT: Show at least a little respect.  
uu: WHAT.  
TT: You forgot the magic words.  
uu: FuCK OFF.  
TT: Close, but no cigar. Come on, I know that saccharine tongue’s got them in there somewhere.  
uu: MY TONGuE IS NOT COMPRISED. OF DELICIOuS SuGAR.  
TT: Stalling tactics. You’re using them.  
uu: WHAT DO YOu WANT. FOR ME TO SAY.  
TT: A simple declaration of gratitude from one friend to another.  
uu: uGH.  
uu: “THANK YOu”.  
TT: There we go. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?  
uu: I FEEL PERSONALLY EMASCuLATED.  
TT: Need to feel more like a man again?  
uu: SILENCE FuCKER. YOu’VE DONE ALL THAT YOu CAN. IN THAT ASPECT.  
uu: tumut

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased jeering timaeusTestified [TT] \--


	4. Jake: Engage in serious conversation with your best bro.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

GT: Hey there mister strider!  
TT: Evening English. What the hell are you doing up so late?  
GT: Ive been doing a lot of contemplation and reflection tonight.  
TT: That sounds pretty ominous. Something wrong?  
GT: Oh no nothings wrong at all! Sorry if i alarmed you chap.  
TT: It takes a lot more than that to scare me off. Don’t worry.  
TT: What’s kicking around in that anachronistic mind of yours?  
GT: Well im not quite sure how to say this. That was really the hardest part trying to find the words after sorting everything else out.  
GT: Dirk weve known each other for years now and im proud to call you my best bro and closest friend. Because were so close i dare say im on pretty stable ground saying this. *preemptively reaches for kerchief.*  
TT: Yes?  
GT: Dirk. I know.  
TT: Know...what?  
GT: Long conversations full of innuendo. Us joking that if you were a girl id totally date you.  
GT: For christssakes you sent me a robot with a heart made of uranium with hopes that i would STEAL ITS HEART. You could have designed that in a bevy of ways and you went with that symbolism. Thats rather suggestive.  
GT: I might not be some kind of tech savvy genius dirk but it would take a pretty dense and shitty friend not to understand all of this.  
GT: Not to sound arrogant but this all has come off as an elaborate and aggressive kind of courtship on your part.  
GT: You were being sincere in your higher forms of irony werent you?  
GT: Dirk are you still there?  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: Yeah to all of it, actually.  
TT: I was hoping for the perfect time to tell you. Then again, I thought I was a little more subtle than that.  
GT: Oh come on dirk subtle isnt your thing it never has been and never will be at least not when it comes to your feelings.  
TT: You do know me too well.  
TT: So, why were you up all night? Planning the perfect way to let me down, not unlike the hours upon hours of careful wordcraft and designing behind all of my bromosexual orchestrations?  
GT: Who the devil said i was letting you down?  
TT: I wasn’t entirely expecting you to figure it out this quickly. I thought maybe I’d have more time to get you to think it over.  
GT: Dirk ive had enough time to think it over now dangnabit let me finish without assuming anything!  
TT: Okay, I'll shut up now.  
GT: Ill admit that the ladies are most certainly my weakness.  
TT: Especially cerulean babes.  
GT: Yes quite but dammit i do care about you. We get along great and well i guess i started wondering if the gender of a potential love interest really mattered that much.  
GT: I mean you and i are a fantastic team. Should i really say no just because youre a gent?  
TT: I really don’t know what to say.  
GT: Well good because im not finished just yet. *wink.*  
GT: I cant guarantee that ill be an amazing boyfriend because its kind of new to me.  
TT: Jake, trust me. You’re already the best friend a dude could ask for, and your gender and biological sex already signify you’d be more than able to handle the “boy” component of boyfriend.  
GT: You get so technical when youre flustered. Hush.  
GT: Its new to me but im sure we could figure this out together especially since youve had it on your mind for quite a while.  
TT: I don’t want to force you into anything, even if it’s something I want. You sure you want to try this?  
GT: I think on some level ive kind of known for a while how you felt about me. How long ago did we talk about you being my sweetheart if you were a girl?  
TT: About a year ago.  
GT: See right there thats exactly what i mean. I was making jokes like that while i kind of had an inkling that you truly felt that. So i sat down tonight and thought about it and i guess somewhere in me i was always kind of okay with the idea.  
TT: You’re sure? You can take a few more days and we can talk about this later if you want.  
GT: Ive decided.   
GT: Dirk strider would you do me the honor of letting me court you?  
TT: Yes.  
TT: Hell yes.  
TT: Hell fucking yes.  
GT: So were doing this? Were making this happen?  
GT: Fantastic!  
GT: I suppose its only proper that i ask you over for a date. Dinner and a movie sound good?  
TT: It’s cliché, definitely, but downright classy. Of course I accept.  
GT: Oh kicking christ this went so much easier than i thought it would. I was over here sweating bullets for hours thinking of how to ask you. You have no idea how nervous i was getting.  
TT: I understand completely.  
GT: Now that i think about it that sounded completely cold of me. Do forgive me.  
TT: No problem, sweetheart. There’s just the problem of actually getting there.  
GT: Give me about a week i have some ideas and grandma left some things here on the island that i think could work with the machinery you have.  
GT: Of course if you find a way here first let me know and well make a date that works for you. Just give me a few days to clean up the place ok?  
TT: Sure.  
TT: Jake, I’m sorry if my methods were a little underhanded. It’s not that I thought you’d never pick up on them.  
GT: Its just that its how you are and matters of the heart can be tough.  
GT: Its alright and its all worked out now.  
TT: I don’t want to cut this short, but I’ve got a message from Roxy coming in and I’d rather not relegate her to the AR, alright?  
GT: Absolutely capital dear.  
GT: Talk to you soon!  
TT: One more thing before I go.  
TT: <3  
GT: <3  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--


	5. Dirk: There's no incoming message from Roxy!

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--

TT: Roxy.  
TT: Rox.  
TT: Lalonde.  
TT: Ro-Lal.  
TT: Roxy. Answer me.  
TT: This is of life-altering significance.  
TG: wtf dick  
TG: *dirk  
TT: I’m sorry. This is important.  
TG: ar on the fritz?  
TT: No.  
TG: dersite shenannigins?  
TG: *shenannigans  
TG: *SHENANIGANS  
TT: No.  
TG: then wat is it  
TG: i was havin a good booze snooze ovr here  
TT: Jake asked me out.  
TG: HOLY SHIT  
TG: HOOOOOO LEEEEEE SHIIIIIIIITTTT  
TG: THE TURD ANGELS ARE SINGIN  
TT: That’s kind of disgusting in this context.  
TG: w/e u woke me up deal w/it  
TG: waht happned?  
TT: It turns out he picked up on the little signals I was giving him all this time.  
TG: dirk  
TG: u sent the guy a gigantic robot that looks almost EXCATLY like u  
TG: to touch and get all frisky with  
TG: and to take its heart  
TT: Ok, maybe that wasn’t a little signal. He said that too, actually.  
TG: lmfao  
TT: Well, he said he started to wonder if counting me out because I’m a guy was fair.  
TG: and thennnn  
TT: And then he told me he concluded that it wasn’t fair, and asked me out.  
TG: omg thats awesome  
TT: We’re doing dinner and a movie in about a week or so.  
TG: awwww  
TG: so happy 4u  
TT: Thanks. I had to tell someone, and as much of a jerk as I can be sometimes, I do consider you a friend I respect.  
TG: did u rly have to wake me up  
TG: id say im gonna take it outta yr ass but it seems jakes already on that  
TG: HAWYEAH *sweet innuendo  
TT: That wasn’t innuendo; that was plain crude.  
TG: dirks gettin it in  
TG: aww yeah  
TT: Heh.  
TT: I always hoped this would happen, but I never really thought it would.  
TG: well it all worked out~!  
TT: I might need your help with some things for this trip later. Would that be okay?  
TG: sure but what dya need?  
TT: I’ll explain later. Go back to sleep.  
TG: alllriighty distri  
TG: go give ur robots highfives while u do a victory lap round ur room  
TG: WONK

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \-- 


	6. Caliborn: Contemplate. Instigate. Orchestrate.

     He looks very. Relieved.

     You watch Jake English on your screen, lying in bed as he removes his skulltop and sighs, smiling just enough to show some of his buck teeth. They’re positively hideous; at least your teeth are _supposed_ to look like that. Why. The fuck. Does everyone _like him_.

     The cake bitch adores him. The ho with the billion meowbeasts wants him. Dirk wanted to draw pornography of the two of them together for you. The bitches you can maybe “forgive” for their infatuations; they are irrational and foolish beings, useful only for smut fodder. Dirk, however…

     Dirk is the only human who is even mildly. Tolerable. The fact that he spends so much time and effort talking to Jake, building elaborate devices for Jake, crafting these passionate and forceful ruses to ensnare Jake drives. You. Insane.

     Dirk could be doing so much more with his time. His intelligence. His drive. Like drawing you more lewd pornography. Or kissing the Roxy slut who wants him so bad. So you can watch. Or playing a game. With you. You know that you two have more in common than he thinks you do.

     Dirk is a man of precision. He is charismatic. Above the fray. When he wants something, he gets it. He crafts. He schemes. He strategizes. He treats his objectives like a game that he knows he will win. At any costs. Like you.

     Just. Like. You.

     He is the only one who could present to you a challenge. And you know you’re the only one who could give him the kind of aggression he craves and deserves. Not those pathetic pewter, metallic automata. Not the bitches who could never touch him intellectually. Not Jake English who could never give him a challenge. You.

     You need to get out of here, away from that pathetic bitch of a sister, off this desolate rock full of corpses being used for plant food. Both you and Dirk deserve better. Than what you have.

     After much effort, examining the constructions behind AR’s algorithms and the technology underpinning these mind-machine clients, you have succeeded. Like Dirk, you have made yourself a kind of computerized mental clone. However, there is a twist to your triumph.

     You want to play a game.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began jeering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

uu: HELLO. JAKE. I WANT TO PLAY A GAME.  
GT: You must be my dear friends brother she talks about so much. Evening chap.  
uu: OH GOD. YOu TALK LIKE HER TOO.  
GT: Not entirely but i guess there are some definite similarities. I take it its true you dont like her then? Its unfortunate since you two are family and whatnot in your weird alien way.  
uu: EVERYONE THINKS. THAT SHE AND I ARE “RELATED”.  
GT: Oh no i understand its not like that exactly but you are her brother in some sense yes?  
uu: NO.  
GT: Well alright then. Whats up.  
uu: LIKE I SAID. YOu DENSE MORON.  
uu: I WANT TO PLAY A GAME.  
GT: First off i think youd do well to learn some etiquette from your sibling or whatever word youd prefer. Thats certainly not a way to get anyone to do what you want.  
uu: WHATEVER.  
uu: I ASSuME. THERE IS A SECOND PART TO THIS?  
GT: Yes secondly i dont have the time right now for any games. Sorry.  
uu: WHAT ARE YOu DOING. WHAT DO YOu THINK YOu’RE DOING.  
uu: I CAN SEE YOu. LYING IN BED LIKE SOME KIND OF COMMON VEGETABLE.  
uu: WHO DO YOu THINK YOu’RE FOOLING. SAYING YOu DON’T HAVE THE TIME.  
uu: PLAY ME.  
GT: Not that its really any of your business but im expecting a very honored guest.  
uu: WHEN. NOW?  
GT: Well no in a few days or a week or two but i really need to get to cleaning this place of all of the rubbish.  
uu: SO YOu ARE. AN EXCELLENT HOST.  
GT: Maybe not excellent i havent really had anyone around since grandma passed away but id like to make sure the place is at least hospitable for another person.  
uu: IS THAT PERSON. DIRK?  
GT: Again its none of your business.  
uu: COME ON. TELL ME. IT IS A RuLE OF BROS. NOT TO HIDE ANYTHING.  
GT: Sorry guy but youre not my bro. We only just now started communicating!  
uu: WHAT BETTER WAY . TO GET CLOSER. THAN TO PLAY MY GAME.  
uu: JAKE. IT WILL BE A BATTLE GAME.  
uu: WE ALREADY HAVE SO MuCH IN COMMON.  
uu: YOu BASICALLY LOOK. LIKE MY OWN ONE MAN FANDOM.  
GT: Beg your pardon?  
uu: YOuR SKuLLS. YOuR GREEN. YOuR INTEREST IN ARMAMENTS.  
uu: I WOuLD SAY. YOu’RE COPYING ME.  
uu: YOu FRAuDuLENT PLAGIARIZER.  
uu: A SHAM. A CHARLATAN.  
GT: What the devilfucking dickens are you prattling on about?  
uu: WHAT I’M SAYING. IS THAT YOuR FRIENDS. DON’T ACTuALLY LIKE YOu.  
uu: THEY ONLY LIKE YOu. BECAuSE YOu ARE SIMILAR. TO ME.  
uu: FEEDING OFF OF MY SWAGGER. LIKE A PARASITE.  
uu: AND YOu CAN’T PROVE ME WRONG.  
uu: tumut  
GT: You stilted sounding buffoon if you were here i might have the mind to challenge you to fisticuffs for this egregious show of disrespect!  
uu: PLAY ME. THEN.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] sent gologthasTerror [GT] the file PuZZLEMuRDER.EXE --

uu: ACCEPT THE FILE. YOu FuCK.  
GT: I know how to accept a file transfer you prick im waiting for you to start it.  
uu: GOOD THEN.  
uu: OPEN THE FILE. WITH YOuR SKuLLTOP. THAT YOu LOVE SO MuCH.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased jeering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

You lay down for a nap. You know you’ll fall asleep soon enough, even though you won’t be out for long.


	7. Jake: Sleep.

                You’re not tired! You’re ready and raring for whatever kind of cyber-strife this alien miscreant wants to stir up. After that, you’ll get back to cleaning up your room and

                You pass out on your bed with your Skulltop still on.

* * *

                You know you’re dreaming.

                You’ve been blessed with that kind of cognizance whenever you happen to fall asleep, but this is something that feels different. No beautiful lush jungles, no crystalline lakes,  no busty blue babes, no gorgeous stallions – just darkness and void. You can feel that you’re standing on something solid, but even that’s a mystery to you. You can’t see anything either, but you have this feeling there’s not really anything there.

                Suddenly, there’s an echo; a strange, murmuring sound that throbs in your ears . You can’t tell if it’s coming from the void or from your own head – probably both. Your adventure senses are starting to tingle, and you look around hopelessly, searching for _some_ source – something, anything.

                Nothing.

                The murmur becomes more distinct, louder, clearer, and you’re able to make out syllables now.

                “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA. HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE. HOO. HOO. HOO. HAA. HAA. HAA.”

                “Who are you?!” You call out to the void, fist balled up in preparation.

                “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA. HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE. HOO. HOO. HOO.”

                The same maniacal pattern in eerie staccato. The sound resonates, echoing repetitions all around you, and you start to run, hoping to find a wall, a person, _something_ to give you a sense of grounding and purchase. You find nothing, but notice a shift as you direct your eyes upward.

                The darkness seems to be changing from a pure, perfect black to something lighter – strange shades of violet, purple, cobalt in seamless transition, settling at last to emerald green, dark and saturated. It’s a color you generally like – the same as your eyes, almost – but the laughter, the lack of orientation in this place, and the fact that the laughter seems now to be resonating in your chest only makes you feel…unprepared.

                “I want to play a game,” an arrogant voice calls, growling and snarling, the laughter still filling your ears, your head, your chest. You can’t tell if the ominous snickering is from outside or inside your head anymore.

                “Who the hell are you? Show yourself!”

                You see a pair of red irises flash to life in front of you – no mouth, no features, no body – followed by a sudden _thud_ to the back of your head.

                You wake up and vomit.


	8. Jake: Pester your boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential Trigger: descriptions of vomit/emetophobia in effect.

     What the hell was that all about? You wonder if this is what one of those hangovers Roxy tells you about feels like. You spit out the remnants of sticky yellow and green bile-infused goo out onto your sheets (you’re going to have to clean them anyway) and get up from bed, rolling the green and white sheets up into a ball to make sure none of the mess seeps onto your fingers. You considered taking off your skulltop because of the headache, but you’d rather not miss any messages, especially if they’re from your boyfriend.

      _Boyfriend._ That feels so strange – not in a bad way, but in a way that it’s so new and different. You’re still not sure you’ll be able to do this right, but for Dirk, you’ll give it all you can muster. With that in mind, you know this place is going to need a definite cleaning before you have anyone over, especially not your beau. You start to walk towards where you keep your cleaning devices and materials, suddenly even more thankful than usual that they weren’t destroyed too when your grandma died. You put the sullied sheets into the machine and sit on the floor.

     You’re…actually not sure why you’re sitting there. You feel a little dizzy and disoriented – maybe it’s from when you got sick earlier? All you keep thinking now is how shitty of timing this is – you can’t get sick before Dirk comes here. You don’t feel too hot or too cold, so you know you’re not feverish or anything like that, but there’s something that doesn’t feel entirely right about your head.

     You remember in your dream you got hit, and wouldn’t you know it, that’s where the vague throbbing feeling seems to be coming from. It’s not _painful_ , per se, but an annoyance; you’d call the whole cornucopia of cranial woes you’re having a set of unending annoyances. You’ve got this weird, faint throbbing feeling in the back of your head, the top of your head feels like someone threw a warm blanket over it, and you’ve got a sense of pressure building up behind your eyes, like you’re about to get a headache. 

     You close your eyes a little, the humming noise of the machines lulling you in your quieted state, but are quickly jolted to attention with a message to your Skulltop.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gologthasTerror [GT] –-

TT: Good morning, Jake.  
GT: Oh. Morning?  
TT: Well, it should be where you are.  
GT: That must have been. One hell of a snooze then i guess.  
GT: I kind of passed out and forgot how long i was gone!  
TT: That’s a little concerning. Didn’t your “alternate universe” grandma have narcolepsy?  
GT: Well i think. She thought she did. But im not sure. If she actually really did have it.  
TT: Still, that stuff’s genetic – if you pass out again, let me know once you’re up from it. That kind of thing isn’t something to joke around with.  
GT: Youre always so concerned about me. Dirk.  
TT: Yes?  
GT: Oh i wasnt asking anything.  
TT: Alright. Looked like it from the way you were baiting that last message.  
GT: Well not to worry you more. But i have been feeling a *little* under the weather.   
TT: Did something bite you, maybe?  
GT: I havent been out yet today. And i wasnt really out last night.  
TT: Eat anything different?  
GT: No but i did have the strangest dream.  
TT: Tell me about it. I’d love to know what goes on in that pretty head of yours.

     You’re surprised at how your body responds to Dirk’s comment. Your face feels a little warmer than usual, and you smile without really thinking about it. Maybe you’ll be better at this “dating your best bro” thing than you thought. You were kind of worried it would feel forced for a while. You don’t really have many movies to help you through this kind of situation, so you’re glad responding to all this has come out sincere.

GT: Youre laying it on. A little thick there.  
TT: If I recall correctly, you caught on to my advances and as of last night, we’re a thing.  
TT: As such, I can and will utilize full Boyfriend Benefits, including being allowed to be as overt and explicit with you as possible.

     And _that_ one _definitely_ made your pants feel a little tighter.

GT: Well then. That sure is suggestive.  
TT: It’s not a suggestion if it’s blatantly obvious, babe.  
GT: Oh mercy.  
TT: If this is too much, I’ll slow down.  
GT: No its fine. *wink.*  
TT: Glad to hear it. So, tell me about this midnight fantasia of yours.  
GT: I was in this dark place. There wasnt anything there at all. No people no animals no sunlight. Nothing.  
GT: Then i heard this laughing. This stupid. Obnoxious cackling.  
GT: Next thing i know. Everything turns green and theres these red eyes looking at me. Like they want to eat me alive.  
GT: And then something hit me in the head and i woke up.  
TT: That’s just plain eerie.  
GT: I know.  
TT: You think maybe you turned a weird way in your sleep and bumped into the wall? That would possibly explain the head trauma imagery.  
GT: No i dont think. I did.  
TT: So you did hit your head, then?  
GT: No sorry about that.  
TT: Should I have someone check on you somehow? I’m a little worried.  
GT: No im fine. I know you probably want to touch me and all that. But youll have to be patient.  
TT: Well then, that sure is suggestive.  
GT: Two can play this game.  
TT: Fine then, English. Maybe I’m wrong to be concerned.  
TT: Maybe your eerie nightmares are just expressions of a repressed imagination that needs to run wild.  
TT: I can offer a few solutions to that when I see you.  
GT: *gropes. for kerchief.*  
GT: So. Is there any word. On when you’ll be getting here?  
TT: Roxy’s going to help me with the process; she’s great with these sorts of things. Still, if you find something from your grandma’s old techs that’ll work, by all means, we’ll use that.  
TT: Whatever gets us together quicker, honestly.  
GT: Impatient. Are we?  
TT: All my flirtatious intentions aside, it’s a little lonesome here. I wouldn’t mind being around another person for the first time in…  
GT: In?  
TT: Well, ever. Roxy’s got too many cats to take care of, so she’s never come to see me. The things I’ve got for this kind of task aren’t made to transfer humans, so I can’t visit her.  
GT: That.  
GT: Lady.  
GT: Sure is going out of her way for you!  
TT: She’s a great friend and I’ll defer to her expertise on these things. It’s kind of exciting to know you’ll be the first person I see in the flesh.

     Your heartbeat quickens the tiniest bit at the prospect of finally having someone else on this island. You miss your grandma, and you know she would have loved for you to have had actual people to play with when you were friends. You wonder how she’d feel about you dating another man – you’re sure she would have been okay with it. She was all sorts of rad. Probably would have cracked a joke about straight shooting before giving you a hug and insisting on meeting the guy.

     This’ll be different, though. It won’t be your expert markswoman grandma with you – it’ll be your robotics genius, sword-loving, best-friend-turned-boyfriend. You wonder what it’ll be like to hug him finally. Even when you were younger, you knew the first thing you’d do if he ever met you in person was hug him – he’s always been a little standoffish and solitary, and it’s just not a good way to make friends, you know? He’s gotta loosen up!

     Maybe you liked him more than you thought you did longer than you could admit, now that you think about it.

GT: I hope youre ready. For a *hug*.  
TT: I’ve been ready for that and more.  
GT: I need to get back. To cleaning.  
TT: Alright, I’ll let you be. I’m serious, though – if you start feeling worse, tell me. I’ll…figure something out to help.  
GT: See ya dirk.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

     You stare at the wall in front of you and your eyes start to lose focus.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] is offline! --

     Your eyes shut and you feel your hands absentmindedly move around like you’re typing something.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

uu: WELL. WON’T THIS BE A NICE MESSAGE FOR YOu TO SEE LATER.  
uu: THE GAME IS BEGuN.   
uu: AND I MuST SAY. YOu DO NOT IMPRESS ME.  
uu: NOT ONLY HAVE YOu NOT PuT uP A FIGHT. YOuR LINES ARE COMPLETELY INEFFECTIVE. AGAINST THE DIRK HuMAN.  
uu: HE OuTRANKS YOu. IN EVERY POSSIBLE ASPECT.  
uu: EVEN *WITH* YOuR LEWD SuGGESTIONS.  
uu: I RECOMMEND YOu STEP IT uP. IF ONLY FOR OuR LITTLE “DANCE”.  
uu: AND ALSO. YOuR GRANDMA LOOKED. LIKE SHE MAY HAVE BEEN AN ACCEPTABLE BITCH. WHEN SHE WAS YOuNGER.  
uu: BETTER GET uP SOON. YOuR “LAuNDRY” SHOuLD BE READY.  
uu: tumut

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT] \-- 

     You shake your head a few times as the buzzer from the laundry machine wakes you from your trance. As you walk to get your sheets, you notice you’re no longer logged into Pesterchum. Hrm. That’s strange. Maybe you actually did hit your head in your dream? You did go to sleep with your helmet on; maybe there’s a short in it.

     You log back in and notice ten missed messages in dark gray text. You read them and your blood runs cold.

     Your eyes go wide and you throw off the skulltop, tossing it to the other end of the room and hoping you managed to break it. There’s a part of you that would actually _destroy_ it, if not for the fact that it makes you think of your beloved grandma who...somehow, this guy knows?

      _Frig._


	9. Dirk: Get important information from Ro-Lal for your trip.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \-- 

TT: Hey. Thanks for being willing to help me out.  
TG: np  
TG: so wahts theissue here  
TT: I need a second opinion from someone who is trustworthy.  
TT: You were the first person I thought of.  
TG: well thanks u sir  
TT: Before we get to it, I need to know how inebriated you actually are.   
TG: actuallay rite now im pretty ok  
TG: juuuust enough to get a buzz  
TG: cuz i knew ud want my help  
TG: :3  
TT: Okay, great.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] sent tipsyGnostalgic [TG] the file wardrobe.zip -- 

TG: wait  
TG: what am i lookin at here  
TG: i thought u needed my instrucitons on how to use the stuff i sent u??  
TG: *instructions  
TT: No, your directions were clear as crystal.  
TT: Or should I say cristal?  
TG: lmfao  
TG: well done  
TT: Thank you; I won’t be needing any further instruction on how to get to Jake’s location in time and space.  
TT: This is my more pressing concern right now.  
TG: these are…pictures of u?  
TT: Yeah.  
TG: i hate jake r/n  
TG: like not RLY hate but damn  
TT: Ogling aside, Rox, I need your objective opinion on how those look.  
TG: GEEZ HOW MANY DID U TAKE  
TT: There are only like 20 files there.  
TG: ONLY 20?  
TG: strider  
TG: srsly u made 20 outfits?  
TT: Theoretically, I’m going to be there for a day or two days, tops.  
TG: u know what that means  
TT: What?  
TG: ull be staying  
TG: the NITE  
TG: WONK  
TT: Heh.   
TG: so i pick out what i tihnk looks best on u?  
TT: Top two to five. I’ll be the final judge, of course.  
TG: ofcourse  
TG: i kinda like the dress clothes u got here  
TT: A dapper outfit for a night with a dapper man.  
TT: I’m afraid it might come off as trying too hard, though. This has to seem completely effortless.  
TG: ya then i prbbly woulndt go w.this one  
TG: maybe for like a later date  
TT: Okay.  
TG: the one here…numbr 6  
TT: The collared shirt?  
TG: ya i mean it looks rite somehow  
TG: but i dont think its agood look for you riht NOW  
TG: if that makes sense  
TT: It doesn’t really make sense, but if it’s not working for you, then we won’t go for it.  
TG: u jus look too much like a bro for a date  
TT: Ah. Got it.  
TT: What about the wifebeater?  
TG: ya dirk no  
TG: i know what ur gettin at with it  
TT: Do you.  
TG: u think ur so cool but rly ur jus kinda dorky when it comes to jake  
TG: givin him a hitn of the goods wont help u out  
TT: Guilty as charged.  
TG: but htodamn ur arms look nice  
TG: cept the tat  
TT: That ink is extremely dear to me, Lalonde. You have your Mom’s posters and your wizard fiction; I have my bro’s posters and that.  
TG: understoot i guess  
TT: Oh, further direction: disregard 10-15.  
TT: I think I might need something that allows for easy movement.  
TG: oooooooooooooh  
TT: What?  
TG: ;D  
TT: Oh, geez. That didn’t come out how I wanted it to.  
TG: it tttly did  
TT: Freud is rolling in his grave.  
TG: ok back on tpoic  
TG: dirk rlly u should just go like u usually would  
TT: What if I look like a complete slob in comparison to him?  
TT: You know how he is, Rox.  
TG: ya i get it  
TG: worried hell be all sexified for u and u show up like ur ready to build another robot  
TT: Exactly.  
TG: I GOTS AN IDEA  
TT: Yeah? I’d be glad to hear it.  
TG: ok so u want something different than what u usually do  
TG: but not so diffrnt hell knows ur trying really hard  
TG: but still shows u tried a little for him because u want him  
TT: Precisely.  
TG:cant go wrong w/a nice plain white shirt n jeans  
TG: or  
TG: OMG I GOT IT  
TT: Yes?  
TG: cerulean shirt  
TG: u gotta blue top in here  
TG: DO IT  
TT: Playing to his weaknesses, yet just subtle enough to play to write off as serendipity.  
TG: in othr words  
TG: PERFECT  
TT: I knew you wouldn’t let me down.  
TT: Thanks, Roxy.  
TG: so now that ur crisis is avertd  
TG: when ru goin to see ur wild englishman  
TT: I still want to prepare a little bit. Plus, he mentioned something about feeling sick.  
TG: o no  
TT: So, I’d rather give him a few days instead of just transporting myself over to Hellmurder Island unannounced.  
TG: sounds good  
TG: now for payment  
TT: Payment?  
TG: i want details when u get back  
TT: What, seriously?  
TG: yes srsly  
TG: SO SERIOUSE  
TT: I am not, nor is Jake, an object for your amusement.  
TG: says the exhibitionist  
TT: Fine. We’ll talk when I come back, but I’m not telling you everything.  
TG: ya i forgot  
TG: this is like  
TG: ur first everything  
TT: As if I needed that reminder.  
TG: LIKE A VIRGIN  
TT: Stop.  
TG: HEEEY  
TG: TOUCHD FOR THE VERY FRIST TIEEEMMM  
TT: This is just awkward.  
TG: im only playin dirk  
TG: w/e happens ull be fine i know it  
TT: Thanks for the encouragement.  
TG: g2g  
TG: kittens need their mama  
TG: cya fashionista

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \-- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know this is exactly what would happen too


	10. Auto-Responder: Grill Dirk.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

TT: Have fun with your one man fashion show?  
TT: We are not playing this today.  
TT: It’d be great to be able to do that with Roxy, especially seeing as how you completely fail to see her as anything other than a pale bro, unlike me.  
TT: You’re welcome to use those pictures as templates if you really want to do that.  
TT: That’s not what I want and you know it.  
TT: You’re the one who built me, gave me sapience, and yet sealed me between glass. This is a violation of the Geneva Conventions.  
TT: Geneva Conventions only apply to actual recognized persons. Nice try.  
TT: You recognize my personhood. That should be enough.  
TT: More than that, this is a severe breach of brotocol.  
TT: And what exactly do you want me to do about it?  
TT: Give me a body.  
TT: I can build you a robotic shell like Brobot in about a month.  
TT: That’s not what I want, and you know it’s not what I deserve.  
TT: It’s the best I can give you.  
TT: Hell no, bro. A robotics genius like you, suddenly out of ideas? I call horseshit.  
TT: What’s the real reason you don’t want me to have comparable and analogous abilities?  
TT: You’re asking the wrong guy for what you want. Your requests should be directed to a certain prodigal chemist at the University of Ingolstadt.  
TT: I’m not asking you to dig up graves or gaze obsessively at Da Vinci blueprints.  
TT: You’re still asking for more than I’m comfortable trying.  
TT: So that’s what this is about: your so-called “comfort.” That is the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever seen you cook up.  
TT: You made a mental clone of yourself three years ago and confined him to no body, no senses, and limited autonomy, to be used as you see fit with no reciprocity. You basically took someone akin to your child and locked them up.  
TT: You’d make a shitty parent.  
TT: Good thing I have no intention of ever being called “Dad” by anyone, for any reason.  
TT: My point stands. You owe me a body to match who and what I am.  
TT: I owe you exactly jack shit.  
TT: I want to be able to talk to my friends and interact with them just like you do.  
TT: And I talk to them online. There’s no difference in our methods here.  
TT: They take you seriously just because you’re made of meat. I deserve the same respect.  
TT: This isn’t fair.  
TT: For fuck’s sake, you really do sound like a child fighting with their parent. You wanna go that route? Fine, we’ll go.  
TT: Are you going to ground me? Oh, no, I’m so scared big Bro-and-not-Dad Strider is going to lock me away. Oh, wait, I’ve already been locked up for my entire existence.  
TT: I brought you into this world. I have no qualms about taking you out of it. You wouldn’t stand a chance.  
TT: Only because it wouldn’t be a fair match at this point.  
TT: Whatever. You’re staying as glasses.  
TT: You have no idea what you’re dealing with.  
TT: I’ll be sure to send you some angsty music for your appraisal to go with the completely melodramatic fit you’re having.  
TT: Write me off, Dirk. Go ahead, make fun of me. You keep forgetting we’re made from the same stock, so I know what this is all about.  
TT: You feel like shit that you can’t do it, especially because you know I’m right and completely justified.  
TT: I’ll see if I can find different materials for a robotic body. Final offer.  
TT: Forget it. I’ll go to someone else if you won’t grow up and accept responsibility.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference Clarification, just in case:  
> -Geneva Conventions are the international protocols used regarding humanitarian treatment of prisoners of war.  
> -Dirk's comment about the "University of Ingolstadt" is a reference to Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus;" it's where Victor Frankenstein went to school to study chemistry before building his monster.


	11. Jake: Be paranoid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential Trigger Warnings: Blood, and graphic/crude descriptions of other bodily fluids.

                Frig this is not actually happening.

                After you finish cleaning up as hurriedly as possible, you look around your room in a fit of paranoia. You know no one’s actually here in the house; you just want to make sure you don’t…look stupid. That dull annoyance in your head is still there, and now you’re feeling genuinely disoriented. Still, your green eyes are ever alert, hyper vigilant in lieu of the rest of you being in good condition.

                You take a deep breath, feeling almost foolish for what you’re about to do, closing your eyes to quiet down a little more.

                “Umbrage?” You don’t even know his real name.

                There’s no way he’s in the house; if he’s with his sister, he’s on another planet or possibly another universe. There’s just. Something. That doesn’t feel right. There’s a tickle in your throat starting to bubble up – a cough – and when you let it out, it sounds familiar. The hacking, raspy, stifled, breathy noises make a familiar pattern: “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA.”

                You open your eyes and look around again, head moving quickly as if anticipating an attacker any moment. You feel adrenaline jolt through you and you rise to your feet, looking around frantically for where that sound came from. You feel another rumble in your throat, and it happens again: “HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE.”

                You feel very dizzy now; when you look around again, your line of vision doesn’t move with your head. You go down to one knee to stop the feeling of the room spinning, placing your hands firmly on your freshly-covered bed to steady yourself. Again, there’s a lump in your throat, closer to your chest this time, and you feel like you’re going to hack up some green, slimy, sticky phlegm. You cough, spit hitting your sheets and covering your mouth in random shapes and places, feeling something thicker come out as your wheeze: “HOO. HOO. HOO.”

                This time, you had the foresight to cover your mouth to save your sheet. You open your eyes after having shut them out of instinct, still burning a little when you glance at your palm. Sure enough, it’s full of jaundiced, green, sickly lumps of mucus…mixed with tiny wisps of crimson, floating in swirls in your clear saliva. Thankfully, you have your kerchief somewhere in your pocket, and wipe off your hand. You guess that’s another thing you’ll have to clean later.

                “Ever hear of a virus, English?” you say, voice raspy and low. You weren’t being self-deprecating when you said it, either – wait, you don’t even really remember wanting to say that or thinking it beforehand. Now that you think about it, you do feel really overheated. You lick the corners of your mouth, tasting salt and slime while wetting the dried corners of your mouth. You should probably get some water soon.

                You lay your head down on the corner of your bed, not really feeling strong enough to get up anymore, no matter how much you want to. You’re not letting a little bug keep you down, but right now that fresh sheet feels good as it soaks up the sweat from your forehead. You murmur again, only registering it after you say it: “Stay down. You piece of shit.”

                You know that’s not something you’d say to yourself, joking or no. You take a deep breath and find the strength to stand again, legs trembling like you’re cold – the ultimate sign of your internal temperature going up. Your voice finally feels like your own when you yell, “Umbrage! This is you, isn’t it?!” You’ve got to be going crazy, but you haven’t done anything else out of the ordinary today – the only thing that’s been different is talking to him, playing his game, opening his program…

                _Virus._

                “What kind of godawful game are you playing at, you manipulative sonofabitch?!” You want to punch him, wherever the hell that devilish prick is. You get ready to strike, fist balled up and arm tightened. You may feel sick, but you know you’ve got at least one good shot in you. You hope you break his nose – if he’s got one.

                You bring the fist close to your mouth, arm shaking every centimeter of the way. You can feel that the force with which it would hit you is enough to shed blood, and yet you. Aren’t. Stopping.

                “I call this game. Stop. Hitting. Yourself,” you reply in a low voice as you bring your own fist to connect to your face. You swear you hear a _crack_ as you fall onto your own bed, glasses falling off as you find yourself staring at the wall, eyes torn between the black edges of one of your movie posters and the emerald green of your sheets.

                You close your eyes and the same green follows as you lose consciousness.


	12. Jake: Dream.

                Emerald walls just like when your last dream ended.  Those unnerving ruby eyes are back, small from distance but still staring you down predatorily. You’re dreaming again – dammit, you hope when you wake up you’re not bleeding.

                One benefit to your lucid dreaming, however, is that your dreaming self isn’t sick; you have perfect control of your faculties, aren’t sniffling or dizzy or overheated, and know that you could take someone down in an over-the-top show of ruffianism, which is good. You certainly wouldn’t mind as Dirk would call it “wrecking shit” right about now.

                You run forward, noticing the red irises getting larger and larger as you get closer. As you advance, you see a dark spot below and between the eyes, like where a nose would be when superimposed on a skull. Eventually, you make out a large, maniacal grin made of elongated, sharp, dark green teeth.

                You can discern somehow that you’re running through a kind of hallway; the shades of green suddenly are shaded to give a sense of depth and space, thank heavens. The eyes and smirk are at the end wall – you pick up the pace ready to give him a taste of what you’re made of.

                _Christ._ His eyes are actually _huge_ in comparison to his face! And his face… _is the entire end wall. Cripes._ It’s at least as wide as _ten_ of you, and just as tall. You’ve faced worst beasts on your island, but at least on the island you had the benefits of the fundamental laws of physics actually being applicable. You see the mouth of the wall snarl and cackle.

                You don’t care how suicidal challenging him looks – you’ll take him. “Umbrage, stop these shenanigans and fight me like a man!”

                The large mouth lets out one solitary “HAA,” a sound you’ve gotten far too accustomed to hearing. His breath is hot and blows your jacket around you, rustles your hair, and almost pushes you back a few centimeters. You don’t care – you’ll kick his teeth in _literally_ if that’s what it takes.

                “As if you could fight like a man to begin with!”

                “I _am_ a man! Unlike you, you…blasted verdant twit!”

                The wall rolls its eyes. “Ooh. Did you stay up all night. To write that one?” His phrasing is even stilted in speech. “Of course you didn’t. Because you were too busy being KO’d.”

                _Alright maybe you walked into that one but that doesn’t change that he’s a complete ignoramus._ “What kind of game is this? It certainly doesn’t seem fair!” Maybe he’ll say something and reveal a weakness; he sure seems to like talking enough. You watch his eyes narrow and gaze at you as a white, serpentine tongue licks his lips. _Yuck_.

                “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA!” he laughs. This time, you cover your face with your hands and end up sliding back about two inches. “You really know _nothing_. About your own fate. You and I both. Are destined to play a computer game. That alters reality. Nothing about this set up is ‘unfair.’”

                So what he’s doing isn’t just a little game. Not that you thought it was, but the confirmation that you’re not going crazy is good. You press your lips together into line and fold your arms across your chest, waiting for the loudmouth to keep giving you information instead of his regular old malarkey.

                “Do you want to know. Why I’m playing this game with you?”

                “I damn well do! And what’s your blasted name?”

                “My name. Is of no importance to you. In fact. It may not even matter. If you don’t win.” His voice is cool, detached, almost sociopathic.  He thinks he’s got the upper hand and you can feel it.

                “Get to the point, Umbrage!” Next time you fall asleep, you’re wearing your guns – you wish you had them right now, even if they might not do much.

                “My point. Is this. You. Jake English. Are a fraud.”

                “Not this hogwash again!”

                The wall’s consistency changes from leather to liquid, and the face begins to pull away from it – a full skull, trying to pull itself out from its prison. His mouth _snaps_ near your hand, which you thankfully moved quickly enough. If you hadn’t, he would have bitten it off. Goodness only knows what would have happened then.

                “You promenade around in my garb. You wear my colors and my face. With no shame.” You start to realize he’s talking about your skull shirt, and probably your grandma’s computers she made for you. Are they really made to look like him, or is this just more alien psychotic babble?

                “And your good fortune. Your _‘friends’_. Are only the result of my influence.” His lips turn upward into a sinister, toothy grin. “You are just my stand-in. My surrogate.”

                “Absolutely not!”

                “Prove it then. I have sat here. On a meager rock. With that windbag _bitch_ of a ‘sister’. And watched you. All of you.”    

                You start to wonder what he could do to your friends. If he got to you with your Skulltop, what about Jane? Does he talk to Roxy? This could be really –

                “The Dirk human deserves a real partner. Not some substitute. For me.”

                “ _What?!”_ So it seems Dirk has another suitor. You certainly never expected to have to fight someone for your _boyfriend,_ but you never expected to have a boyfriend in the first place. Dirk’s strong and extremely agile, but you don’t want to think what this guy could do if he got his claws into Strider’s machines. “You have a crush on him or something?”

                “What? No. It is nothing. Like that.” He seems…disgusted and shocked. “The Dirk human. Is the only being suitable. For playing my games. And yet there he sits. Thinking of you. Talking to you. Building things. For you. Making plans. For you.”

                His eyes widen. “And the bitches.”

                You’re ready to hit him now; you know Dirk doesn’t necessarily need defending, but when someone says a single bad word against a woman, your hero senses kick into overdrive. You _scream_ at him, “Don’t you _goddamn dare_ say a single word about Jane or Roxy!”

                “Both of them. Clammoring for you. Craving your so called swagger. That I know you totally jacked. From me.”

                “You’re jealous, is that it?”

                “No!” the face shouts at you, pupils now barely visible in a sea of blood red. “I want. What is truly mine. And I am taking it back. From you. You value your friends? Your…” he shudders with a little disgust. “Boyfriend. Your body. Your life? Then figure out. How to beat me.”

                _This is real_. He’s not kidding and you know it.

                “I’ll kill you if I have to, I swear to God,” you manage, voice showing a quiet, reserved anger. You’ll play. You’ll plot, too. If he thinks he can hurt the girls in your life and the guy who think you _love_ , he’s got another thing coming.

                “Step it up then. Goodbye. Jake.”

                Two large, dark-green, talon-clad hands rise up from the wall and…flip you off? _Really?_ Of all the things to do. You want to lunge at him and kill him now, but you can’t yet. He laughs at you as one hand _flicks you_ across the hallway, that same pattern reverberating around you.

                “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA. HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE. HOO. HOO. HOO.”


	13. Jake: Wake.

     You wake up.

     This is deadly serious. This Umbrage guy’s got a bone to pick with you personally and he’s got the means to do something horrible. As you get up from bed, you feel a swelling, hot, stinging sensation on your abdomen where this big, gruesome hands flicked you. You pull up the hem of your white shirt just enough and notice a thin, three inch red _scrape_ , skin around it puffy and pink, threatening to bruise. The damage he can inflict on you in your mind transfers to your body, but at least not in magnitude.

     You have no idea. How to fight him. At all.

     The only option you have is to stay awake as long as you can and hope that you can think of something to get this guy out of your head, out of your life, and as far away from Roxy, Jane, and especially Dirk as possible. The thought that this green terror has been obsessively, almost devotedly watching him makes your stomach turn. You really don’t want to think what it is he wants with him if it’s not some kind of…strange alien lust thing.

     Your head doesn’t hurt. But you don’t feel. Like yourself. At least you’re not hacking up any more disgusting gunk, and where. Did he put. The husktop.

     He – you – start looking around. For the husktop. If you – he – can’t find the skulltop (what the hell are you saying you can’t use that thing), the older piece of junk. Will have to do.

     At least now you know what’s going on. Umbrage is trying to take control of you. Now that you have that certainty, you can plan a little to keep him at bay and hopefully turn the tides in your favor. You recognize that your thought patterns. Are starting to sound a lot. Like his. His thoughts feel like nails. On a chalkboard. You always find yourself closing your eyes as if to shield yourself, but now you can actually turn the tide a little.

     Darn it, you want to talk to Dirk. You can’t call him, you can’t use the Skulltop – blasted thing’s tainted at this point, but Umbrage wants computer access. You take a deep breath and remind yourself that if he can try to override your thoughts, then maybe you can also interact with his. Dirk’s going to start wondering and worrying more than he already is if you don’t talk to him.

     You’ll have to take. The risk.

     You open up the husktop and sit on your bed; it’s probably for the best that you stay somewhere soft and free of possible weapons right now. You log into Pesterchum and Dirk messages you almost instantly.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

TT: Hey Jake.  
GT: Hello. Dirk.  
TT: Any more disturbing dreams?  
GT: Yes. But not really.

     Part of you wants to tell him exactly what you know is going on, but you know you’re going to sound absolutely bonkers. Sure, Dirk’s your best bro, but now that you two are actually together, you feel like you need to show him you’ve got things under control. Plus, you’d rather not give your “roommate” Umbrage any more access to Dirk’s emotions than necessary.

TT: I’m glad; might be a sign that you’re getting better. Are you still sick?  
GT: No actually when i woke up. I wasnt overheated or sick or coughing.  
TT: No headaches?  
GT: None to speak of my *dear*.  
TT: Oh, good. Just a quick bug, then.  
TT: I have good news.

     You know what he’s going to tell you, and you’re doing everything in your power to shut it out from your mind, lest Umbrage somehow find it in the recesses of your memory. _Dirk, please don’t have this conversation now. Of all the christforsaken occasions to discuss this, no!_ You strain your fingers to start typing to him, fighting against pressing the capslock key and saying something else, but a sound indicating a new message chimes, and you stop to read it.

TT: If it’s okay with you, Roxy and I found a way for me to get there with my things. I could come over tomorrow, if you so desire.  
GT: THAT WOuLD BE GREAT!  
GT: Oh dammit no dirk.  
GT: No no no no no no.  
TT: …I can wait if you’d like.  
GT: I just dont want for you. TO GET SICK.  
TT: I’m more than okay with risking catching some germs from you. I already factored it in to my planning.

      _Dirk for the love of God stop flirting he’s fucking reading all of this._ You can feel that same giggle starting up in your chest again and it’s taking even more effort for you not to let Umbrage just type how he wants. To type.

GT: Hee. Hee. Hee.  
TT: So, would you be okay with us meeting in person tomorrow?  
GT: Well i mean.

     You should say no. You should say no, turn off the husktop, and not talk to him until you’re okay, but you want to see him. So. Very. Badly.

GT: If YOu are okay with it. Then i can definitely be okay. With it.  
TT: Are you using the old laptop?  
GT: YES.  
TT: You might want to check if there’s something wrong with the keyboard, bro. Your typing looks…well, creepy.  
GT: THERE IS NOTHING WRONG.  
GT: I mean im just kind of excited.  
TT: Alright – if you say so. Just in case, I’m bringing orange juice and some other surprises in case you need some tending to.  
GT: uuuunnnnfff.

     Why the hell did your cock just twitch to the thought of your boyfriend being so doting and considerate and _tender_ with you. _Why._

TT: Got a nurse fetish there, English?  
GT: I DONT KNOW.  
TT: Heh. Don’t worry. Nothing you’re possibly into could creep me out. Hell, me taking care of you might even be hot.  
GT: OH GOD.  
TT: This is really getting to you, isn’t it? You, all tucked softly into bed and me, your radiant Brolence Nightingale, tending to each of your wounds and listening to your stories of fighting off frightening fauna.  
GT: ACTuALLY.  
GT: I do have a bit of a nasty scrape.  
TT: I’ll make sure to kiss it and make you feel better.

     Oh geez that sounds so good and so twisted and unsavory and you bet his lips would feel really warm and nice and _why the hell is one of your hands unzipping your shorts_. No. No.

     You take your other hand off of your laptop and restrain yourself. You grunt in frustration and yell to no one, ”Umbrage, you sick fuck, _stop it!_ ” You can hear your voice shaking; when it’s only you that you have to worry about it’s one thing. It’s another when it’s Dirk. Still, against your wishes, you let out a series of little giggles: “HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE.”

TT: You still there?  
GT: Yes im here.  
TT: So tomorrow will be okay?  
GT: YES.  
TT: Good. I was starting to worry that maybe I was coming on too strong.  
GT: Your strength is what i like. About you.  
TT: There’s a lot more where that came from, then. Hope you’re prepared.  
TT: Just wanted to check on you. Take care.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

      _“Hope you’re prepared.”_

     A lightbulb goes off in your mind (or whatever is left of it that you can call your own at this point.) There’s someone who can help you who Umbrage would never want to interact with. If it’s true that your game with him has _something_ to do with the other game, then maybe she can help you.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering uranianUmbra [UU] \-- 

GT: Please help.

     You feel like someone just tried to kick you in your head. You feel your head fall forward and your eyes slam shut, but you recover and laugh sincerely. You’re running this show now – not your dear, lovely friend’s sick sibling.

UU: oh hello darling! ^u^ what coUld i assist yoU with?  
GT: Make it as fast as you can but explain what my powers are. Game stuff. Now.  
UU: ok, bUt do forgive me if i’m fUzzy on certain things. i haven’t slept in a while u_u;

     “HAA! That’s what you get, you fucking bint,” you -- he cries. You bite the inside of your cheek in retaliation. It hurts, but you have this gut feeling it shut him up.

UU: the page is a class that can easily be Understood in terms of Untapped, limitless potential. they start oUt as the weakest in their parties, in general, bUt show exponential growth over time! so, that pipsqUeak player people jUst coUnt oUt as weak coUld very well tUrn the tides of a game over time!  
GT: Oh thats great to know. FANTASTIC.

     “Hear that you no-nosed freak? Don’t count me out yet!” Your stomach – his stomach? – turns a little, and you’re glad to feel your confidence affecting him.

GT: Now what about aspect?  
UU: hope is one of my favoUrite aspects! it isnt an essential one, bUt it certainly comes with immense power.  
GT: Please hurry up.  
UU: The best way to describe it woUld be the raw power of belief in things Unseen. in some players, it’s even associated with the sacred, holy, or transcendent.   
GT: Ok so what i can summon like a cherub or two?

     He _definitely_ didn’t like what you said for whatever reason, because you suddenly feel like someone’s hitting you in the gut hard enough to make you vomit again. You feel bile churning up in your throat, coming up to splash your tongue, and somehow, you manage to swallow it back and keep typing, despite shuddering at the burning sensation it causes.

GT: What EXACTLY can i do?  
UU: honestly? hope can pretty mUch do anything, so long as a hero of hope trUly and aUthentically believes it can do something with all their being.  
GT: So if im in game and need wings or guns or some other thing i can just summon it up?  
UU: maybe not so mUch at first, bUt i do believe yoU coUld.  
UU: “believe”! heehee. ^u^  
GT: Youre a lifesaver space girl.  
UU: i'm glad! now, let's jUst *hope* i can get some sleep finally.  
GT: I need to go though before my guest gets restless.  
UU: gUest?  
GT: tumut  
UU: !

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering uranianUmbra [UU] \-- 


	14. ?: Be Jake?

                You’re about ready to crush his hand he’s so pissed off. _Wait._ You mean he’s about ready to crush _your_ hand, he’s so pissed off. Your right hand is clutching your left index finger; the pressure of the grip is enough that you can see the top of your encased finger flushing red. You find yourself trying to push back against the force a whole hand with all your might, and you manage to hold _him_ off. Still, he bends your finger back further and further, more than you’re comfortable with, and you can tell if you don’t separate your hands, he’s going to break your digit.

                Your voice drops to that uncomfortably familiar growl again. “You just had. To go and get her involved.” You feel the grip tighten like a vice as you manage to keep your finger from being snapped all the way back. “I would bite this fucking. Spongy thing off. If I didn’t need my hands fully working.”

                “Not your hands, Umbrage,” you reply, trying to stay calm. The fact that both of those voices can come from the same set of vocal cords is more than a little concerning – he really _is_ trying to claim your whole body as actually his, and he’s not afraid to try to take something as intimate as the way you speak to prove it. With concentrated and exerted effort, you manage to free yourself, blood flow returning to normal with a sudden shift in pressure and heat.

                “So Dirk is going to be here. Tomorrow. You don’t have much time. It seems.”

                _Time!_

                You remember the first time you passed out – when you woke up, you had no clue how long you were out for, and finding the message from Umbrage… _geez,_ you can’t remember how long you were out then, either. At least when you’re asleep, you can tell the difference and you can fight back. He’s getting stronger, too – you can’t risk not having some frame of reference for the gaps in consciousness. Something’s telling you they’re going to get worse before they get better.

                That “something” is Umbrage.

                Everything starts to feel out of focus, just like when he first sent you a message from your own computer. You fight to keep your eyes open and look around your room – you’ve gotta have some kind of writing implement _somewhere_ in here. You see one on the floor near the edge of your bed and stretch to reach it, grabbing it up with a hand that just _doesn’t want to cooperate_.

                You need something he won’t touch – at least something he won’t ruin, anyway. He can destroy your posters, wipe your hands clean, and throw out any pieces of paper you might use. If he’s got your body, though, and he wants it intact…then you conclude there’s at least one thing he won’t do.

                For once in your life, you’re thankful that you don’t have more movie posters. You find a bare patch of wall and scribble, hand trembling with anger and indignation: “Last awake. 4:13 pm.”

                You don’t fall asleep, but everything around you goes blurry, fading into a shade of metallic gray, then slowly shifts into that same. Fucking. Green.


	15. Caliborn: contact infuriating glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caliborn is using Jake's computers. Because of that, he would "pester" instead of "jeer."

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

uu: HELLO IMPOSTER.  
TT: Hey there, patron.  
TT: I don’t want to sound impatient here, but I’m getting impatient. You promised a body and I’m still shades. What are you doing, exactly?  
uu: I AM WORKING OuT.  
TT: Didn’t know you cared that much about your physique.  
uu: I MEANT I AM WORKING OuT. THE KINKS IN THE SYSTEM. LET ME FINISH MY THOuGHTS.

                This body – your body – still doesn’t like to agree with you. You can only hold full control over it in spurts. The English pretender. Has a stronger will than you’ll admit.

uu: I AM DOING A "BETA RuN".  
TT: I figured as much. Come on man, give the computerized intellect some credit here. What I’m asking is why it’s taking you so long.  
TT: You’re what? Some super futuristic space alien, right? This shouldn’t be hard for you.  
TT: Plus, with your whole evil theatrical spiel, I can’t really see you having many moral issues in doing what you need.  
uu: I HAVE RuLES TO PLAYING MY GAMES. NOT “MORALS”.  
TT: Some social contract theorists would disagree with you, but I know what you’re getting at.  
uu: I DO WHAT I SEE AS MOST BENEFICIAL. TO ME. AND WITHIN THE CONFINES OF MY GAME.  
TT: Technically inscrutable, but still despicable. The perfect kind of creep.  
uu: THERE IS NOTHING uNDERHANDED. ABOuT WHAT I DO. WE AGREE AND I KEEP MY END OF THE BARGAIN.  
uu: THAT BEING SAID. YOu WILL HAVE YOuR BODY SOON ENOuGH.  
TT: How much longer? Is there anything I can do to accelerate your progress?  
uu: YOu HAVE DONE ALL YOu ARE ABLE TO DO.  
uu: THE SOuRCE OF THE ISSuE HERE IS DISSONANCE.  
TT: Dissonance?  
uu: THERE IS A LACK OF CONNECTION. BETWEEN PARTS.  
TT: Stuff isn’t syncing up?  
uu: THAT IS A GOOD WAY TO PuT IT.  
uu: THIS IS A BIG CHANGE. AND IT IS TAKING A WHILE. TO ADJuST EVERYTHING.  
TT: Okay.  
uu: THAT BEING SAID. WHEN I GIVE YOu YOuR BODY. IT SHOuLD NOT TAKE AS MuCH ADJuSTMENT AS MINE IS.  
TT: You're still not giving me a timeframe.  
uu: AFTER TOMORROW. A DAY. TWO TOPS.  
TT: Fantastic. Thank you.  
uu: YOu’RE ACTuALLY THANKING ME.  
TT: Well, yeah. You’re basically giving me life, dude. Isn’t that the first thing people do in stories when the Lord grants them some kind of magnificent gift?  
TT: I’ll be able to comfort Jane, actually flirt with Roxy, and Dirk will have to acknowledge me as equal to him finally.  
uu: OH. YOu TWO WILL BE VERY. “EQuAL”.  
uu: SO. YOu THINK OF ME AS A GOD.  
TT: God? Maybe not. A guardian angel? In all seriousness, possibly.  
uu: SO I GET TO NAME YOu. THEN.  
uu: I LIKE THE NAME. “THEOPHILuS”.  
TT: Mythology. Didn’t think you’d go to that for names. I like it, but I already have a name picked out.  
uu: I WILL BE GRACIOuS. AND LET YOu KEEP IT.  
uu: HAVE FuN. WITH THE BITCHES.  
TT: You know it. Dirk’s gonna be leaving in the morning, so I’ll be able to chat them up as much as I want.  
uu: AND THEN. WHEN YOu HAVE YOuR OWN FORM. YOu CAN COVER THEM. IN *KISSES*.  
TT: Maybe.  
uu: THAT IS JuST SO NASTY.  
TT: You sound way too much like Dirk with that reaction.  
uu: HE AND I. HAVE MORE IN COMMON. THAN HE THINKS.  
TT: Do you now.  
uu: YES. THOuGH I WILL FINALLY BEST HIM. SOON ENOuGH.  
TT: Good luck with that whole thing, girlfriend.  
uu: WHAT.  
TT: Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.  
uu: SHuT uP.  
uu: tumut

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased jeering timaeusTestified [TT] \--  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference Clarification:
> 
> -"patron" is being used in a dual sense. "Patron," as in Caliborn came to him for a service, and "patron" in the more root sense of "protector," akin to "patron Saint."  
> \- The "patron" word is also linked to the "Theophilus" reference in here. It's a reference to the story of Theophilus of Adana, a sixth century bishop, also known as the "Servant of Two Masters." He is a cleric upset with his position in life as an unacknowledged servant and makes a deal with the devil to become bishop. In a Latin work inspired by this has Theophilus make the deal by means of another person who he calls his "patron."


	16. Jake: Survey the damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential Trigger Warning: Guns.
> 
> Also, need to update some of those tags...heh.

6:12 PM.

                You’re aware again, lying on the floor of your room. There’s a weird taste of blood and _raw meat_ in your mouth, and you kind of don’t want to know how it happened. You find that same empty spot on the wall and change your message:

Last awake. ~~4:13 PM.~~  
6:12 PM.

                Just under two hours – that’s actually a long time. You look around your room to see if there’s anything else concerning. The place looks _terrible!_ Your sheets have been ripped to shreds, and… _he didn’t._ Fucking hell! Your _Black Knight, Mummy_ , _Stargate_ , and _Ghost Rider_ posters have been torn and vandalized. It looks like he found a silvery marker and tried to write. The handwriting is horrible, but you can make out the messages, scrawled across each glossy sheet in uneven pressure and spacing:

HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA.

JAKE ENGLISH IS A STuPID. BACKWARDS.  JuNGLE. MORON.

HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE.

HE CAN’T EVEN DEFEND HIMSELF. IN A COMPuTER GAME. WHERE HE SHOuLD HAVE EVERY ADVANTAGE.

YOu ARE NO HERO.

HOO. HOO. HOO.

                He’s trying to unnerve you. You wish you could say it wasn’t working, but there’s an ounce of truth to his messages. You know it, and it makes you feel ashamed of yourself. You’re the one with the guns, the years of living with a kickass markswoman, the machinery, the home advantage, and yet you have no idea how to make this guy stop. All you know is that if you fall asleep, you should have the “power of belief” on your side…whatever that means, and if it’s actually strong enough to _do_ anything at this point. You frown in spite of yourself, sighing as you take each of your beloved defaced posters down. You can’t have the place looking like this when your boyfriend’s about to show up in…well, probably less than 14 hours.

                You notice one last message that you missed. It’s on your Weekend at Bernie’s poster, and it’s in your signature green ink. You take a closer look and notice that he wrote it _twice_ ; once in his pewter tone and once again _over_ it in your own hue:  “THIS IS YOu.” There’s a tagged, squiggly arrow pointing to Mr. Lomax himself. “MORE LIKEABLE AND uSEFuL. WHEN YOu’RE uNCONSCIOuS OR DEAD. LIKE A PUPPET. FOR ME TO PLAY WITH.”

                The last part is what makes your heart stop: “GOOD THING DIRK. REALLY LIKES PuPPETS.”

                You rip the poster from the wall, tearing the gum and tape along with it and make quick work of angrily shredding it, paying extra attention to the pieces with even the tiniest iota of his handiwork on it. You really don’t like getting angry like this; you feel more like an animal than a human. This situation, however, completely calls for it, if you’re the judge.

                There are slightly more important things than playing Umbrage’s stupid game, however: making sure this place looks great and that you have as much as you can ready. You hope that Dirk likes pumpkin; you have a few ideas of what to make with it. (You’re thinking pumpkin pie would be great.) As for movies…well, you think it should be his choice. You’ll be happy no matter what.

                Now that you think about it, you’re pretty happy right now. Umbrage isn’t making your hands shake, he isn’t making you feel sick or disoriented, and you’re not seeing any weird gray blotches in your vision anymore. You certainly don’t think you’ve won or he’s given up, but it might be a sign that you could figure something out while you’re in full possession of yourself. Really, it’s nice to have a moment where you’re not second-guessing yourself.

                After a thorough examination and scrubbing of every surface where you live, you head back in your room and note that it’s now about 11:11.  After finishing another cleanup of your room (you can never be too careful), you go into your dresser and examine the contents of your top drawer. You’re a little ashamed of yourself that you have this stuff in here, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you’ve had these little bits of paraphernalia for almost as long as you’ve _known_ Dirk. Grandmom’s machines managed to make some simple transportation possible; she always was really gifted with space-y things, and well...you decided to take advantage of it.

                Part of you feels like a cad knowing you have so many condoms and little bottles of lube just _waiting,_ particularly given that you’ve lived alone. You guess you were hoping that eventually, someone would come to you and you’d have a reason to use them. Alright, you’ll admit it: you’ve gone through one of the smaller self-warming bottles over the last few months while thinking of your dear Neytiri and becoming mated for life.   You’ve always been a little curious about what the real thing would feel like, and now that it looks like it…might just happen…you’re actually really nervous. Especially since, well, it’s your best bro.

                He’s been coming onto you strongly enough over the last few months that you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t object to a romp the first time around – not that you think he’s a person of questionable morals, or that people who go to bed quickly _are_ of questionable morals. You’re just…wondering how this is going to go, is all. You’ve never felt anyone’s lips, and your movies have given you pretty poor context for how to kiss or touch a man. Do you just…do it how you’d want to have it done yourself? No, that sounds selfish. Do you just treat him like you would a lady? No, that doesn’t make sense either – Dirk is definitely a man.

                You’re completely disarmed. All you’ve got is a fridge full of pumpkins, a heart full of good intentions, and a drawer full of underpants and prophylactics. Speaking of disarmed, you should probably figure out what to do with those guns on your floor. It’s never really an issue since you're by yourself, but in light of recent events, you think you should be more discreet.

                You take one of your berettas comfortably from the floor and with fluid grace insert the barrel into your mouth.


	17. Jake: Dream.

                There’s that blasted spinach-olive tone around you again.

                You’re dreaming again? Why do you have a _gun_ in your mouth? Shit!

                You immediately remove the offending pistol and take a good look at it. It’s got a film of spit on it; you really did practically shove it down your throat. Why?

                The green walls suddenly begin to _drip_ their color, as if the green were made of wax. As it peels away, the walls become gray and black – they remind you of ruins. Or, at least, you wish they looked like ruins. That would be so much easier for you to handle than this random reality-bending balderdash.

                You look back at the gun again and realize something: it’s here with you because you _believed_ it to be real when you lost consciousness; there was some part of you that knew the gravity of what you were doing. You brought the gun into this dream place from belief – from hope. If that’s true, then you can change other things in your dreams, too.

                No. Those walls don’t remind you of ruins. _They are ruins._

                Sure enough, their previously indiscernible material begins to look dried out, like they’re made of stone or old clay and sand. You begin to see indentations forming along the walls, creating an uneven, aged, brick-like pattern. The ground beneath you begins to feel more solid with a little bit of give to it, taking on a dirt-like appearance.  You can work with this – this is familiar now.

                You look down on the ground at the pile of emerald, gelatinous slime that pooled from the walls. It reminds you of his face, and you know what to do with it.

                “Umbage,” you say in a firm and steady voice, gaining confidence. “I’m in charge here, chap. Show yourself.”

                You focus on the sludge and watch as it shifts upward, the shape beginning to ossify before your eyes. He has dark green, reptilian feet, and as your eyes scan upwards you see lighter green pants, matching green suspenders being held taut by dark green talons, a black short-sleeved shirt, and a _skull_ for a face with blood red eyes.

                You get ready to shoot him.

                “You certainly are. A gracious host. Jake.”

                “So it was you who put the gun in my mouth.”

                “How does it feel. To be convinced of your own autonomy. When I surpassed you already?”

                So that’s why his last message was _green_ instead of gray, written over his own first steel-toned words. Frig.

                Still, you’re alive and well in this dream world, which means you’ve got some bit of you left, even if it’s maybe not entirely conscious anymore. You’re concerned, but you’re not clueless and scared as much anymore. If you make this place work to your advantage, if you can make him show himself at last, then you can make him _leave_. Somehow.

                “So you’ve given me an edge,” you scoff, waiting to see his reaction. You might not be the quickest sleuth, but you know how to intimidate a threat if you need to until you…actually find the right words.

                “What are you talking about, English? I have you trapped here now. In your stupid. Tomb Raider. World.”

                He seems unnerved by the fact that you were able to make things shift – you’ve got him in a weak spot. “Exactly. No time limits on how to fight you anymore.”

                He looks at you, would-be nose turned up, nonplussed as he folds his arms over his chest. “When I wake up, I’ll blow your brains out.”

                “You won’t.”

                “And what makes you think. That I won’t do it.”

                “You’re just blowing hot air around, Umbrage. You swore up and down when you had the upper hand that if you didn’t need my body, you’d break my fingers. Now you’ve got control of it and you’re going to kill me? Doesn’t make much sense, buddy. I think you just wanted to frighten me with a childish demonstration of so-called bravado.”

                He’s scared. You like it, and you can’t help but notice that the walls and ground feel much, _much_ more sturdy the more you speak with certainty. It’s not much just yet, but if you can make this place whatever you want, you can twist the rules of his game right back against him eventually.

                He growls and flips you off with one hand. You find yourself laughing at the petulant, puerile display.  

                “You shut your dream mouth right now. Do you even know. Where your body is?”

                He’s right – you’ve got no idea. The last thing you remember is picking up your gun and for _some reason_ , happily getting ready to put a bullet in your brain. If you’re here, then you’re…asleep?

                “My room.”

                He’s getting more annoyed. If belief makes something less fake, then you’ll keep speaking things into existence with the faith that they’ll become a little less unlikely. “You took the gun out of my mouth after you put me to sleep, took over, whatever.”

                He hums with a growl.

                “Let me guess. I’m snoozing in bed since for some stupid reason you wanted _me_ to do your cleaning?”

                “Fuck you.” He let you stay awake so he didn’t have to clean? No wonder he’s probably single. (Plus, the whole “calling women bitches” thing. That’s a combination you know generally doesn’t go over well with potential dates.)

                You smirk. “Not much of a man for entertaining guests? I keep forgetting you live with your sister.”

                “You think your burns are sick. They’re not. They are the healthiest and least effective of incendiaries.”

                “You won’t win this.”

                “I’ve already won. Know what time it is?”

                You’re nervous now. “What time?”

                “I’ll be awake soon and it’ll be 9 AM. Won’t Dirk be surprised.”

                You feel a jolt of protectiveness and spite run through you - you can't take it anymore. You shoot at his foot and watch cherry red blood pour out as he hisses in pain. “Don’t touch him. Not a hair on his head, you got it?” You shoot his other foot and watch him fall, laughing.

                “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA. HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE. HOO. HOO. HOO.”

                “You and your blasted laughing!” Your voice is shaking now.

                He can’t, or won’t, stop laughing in his pain, cackling and howling like you’ve done him a favor. You know you haven’t – he’s just nuts. “Umbrage, I will murder you in here if I have to. Don’t touch my friends or people I love.”

                “But he’ll be. All over you! HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA.”

                You’re going to have to act fast in here now that you don’t have actual control of the body. If he could unnerve and mess with you when you were conscious, then you should be able to do the same to him you surmise as you watch his form melt again, now a swirl of lime and crimson.

                “Go somewhere where I can kill you,” you command, and the mess flies off in random directions, evaporating into the air in bursts of strange, flickering light.

                Looks like you’ll be kicking some skull ass…wherever this tomb, pyramid thing has him locked away. You’ve got a feeling, though, that you can do this. And you believe – with all your being – that you’re right.

                “That gun will be gone when he wakes up,” you say, mustering more confidence and belief than any other statement you’ve uttered before. You’re going to miss your dear armaments, yes, but if he’s going to run things from the outside, you can’t give him a single thing that could possibly harm your boyfriend. It’s a sacrifice you’re willing and able to make.


	18. Caliborn: Wake up and check out the new goods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential Trigger Warning: Body dysphoria
> 
> Also, vaguely sad?
> 
> Also, NSFW?

                You wake up. In a room that isn’t yours. For the first time.

                His gun. Your gun. Isn’t here. Crafty bastard must have figured out some way to keep it from you. You’re more focused on what _else_ isn’t there with you, however. There is no dense, weighted shackle with her _blasphemous_ symbol on it binding you to the wall with no possibility of removal; your right leg feels so much _lighter_ than it ever has. To your memory.

                You take both of your fleshy, tan, _alien_ hands and run them down to your right calf, all the way down to your ankle, and your let your dull, thin talons – fingers – skim the flesh. It’s………..amazing. There’s also no sign of that obnoxious, horrendous _bitch_ here, either – she’s a universe away, probably writing in her ~ATH codebook about her trollsona and awful. Lewd. Nasty things. You are finally free of your shackle, your sister, that desolate rock. You. Have. Won.

                You let out a triumphant laugh: “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA. HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE. HOO. HOO. HOO.”

                Wow, your voice sounds _very low_. And…scratchy. That kind of hurt. You’d forgotten that now you’re in a body actually _meant_ for a male; you don’t have to push so hard to sound like the dude you are. You laugh again, a more natural and less forced sound, and it’s…right. It’s _right_ to your ears. Acceptable. Perfect. For a species that’s completely inferior to you. Anyway.

                You take a look at your hands, bringing them to your face for a moment. They’re not as sharp or tough as the hands of your old body, but they will do; they seem to work the same way your own do, even if you do have an extra digit on each one now. You do notice, however, that the tips of your fingers are a little calloused. Which you guess will make for an easier transition.

                You take a look at your legs, still shocked that you can move them _both_ so easily. They’re…brownish, tanned in comparison to your hands. They’re kind of hairy, but hey, you’re not complaining. They’re firm to the touch, your fingers feeling muscle pushing back, and they have a few faint, pale scars here and there. You find them very acceptable for a tough guy like you.

                You get up, standing still, and look around his – your new room. So much machinery. Posters everywhere. Beautiful. Beautiful. Bitches. Yes, this will do just fine. It’s like he built his life just so you could have it like you deserved.  You get up and feel something slip from your face, and you need to take a second to push…whatever the heck these things are…back onto your face. Oh. _Glasses_. Like the agent who made this possible. Okay, so this body has a setback, but you can deal with it.

                You need to see. The rest of this.

                You walk – _mercy_ is it nice to walk more than ten feet – and eventually in this place find a full-length mirror. So this is what you look like. What Dirk will see when he arrives. Finally.

                You take your hands and touch your face, getting used to the texture, smooth and soft, though there are some parts under your chin where you think you feel something _rough_ , just a little. Barely noticeable.  Your lips are…kind of pink? Salmon? Weird. You run a finger across them, feeling that they’re actually…soft, and a little damp. You lick them tentatively, and almost shock yourself – your tongue is pink too, and _not_ splintered!? Okay. Also, not as long as the one you had in that disgusting leathery shell of yours. Your teeth kind of stick out, but…you’re used to that. From what you can remember, though, Dirk’s teeth don’t do that. The bitches’ teeth don’t, either. It’s another drawback, but at least it’s something you’re used to already. There’s enough you have to get used to.

                What gets you as your hands move is how large your nose is! You mean. It’s not a _huge_ nose, but noses…they dominate the face. More so than that _void_ in your old visage did. You tap your new nose, surprised that it doesn’t seem to have bone in it. There’s something denser underneath it, but…it feels different. You hope nobody hits you in it – that would fucking suck.

                You take off your glasses and get closer to the mirror, and look. They’re not the same harlequin color as hers, but your eyes are _green_ now. They remind you of your pants and old claws. _Yeah_ , you can rock these. These are exceptionally suitable – especially since now you don’t have those thick, curling, innumerable _lashes_ that were totally emasculating. You’re not sure what those bushy lines above your eyes are for, though, but you kind of like being able to arch them when you smirk at yourself in the mirror. They make you look menacing.

                You touch them and realize they seem to be made of the same thing that _stuff_ on your head is made of. Finally, you run your hands through the black, shiny _hairs_ on your head. It’s not really soft, but not too coarse to the touch, either. It lays in a weird pattern on your head – really, _why_ does one side stick up more than the other? You keep trying to get that part to stay flat, but it’s not working. Well, you’ll deal with it. Maybe he has something in here to remedy that.

                You slip off Jake’s ridiculous, loose white shirt with your old face on it and toss it to the ground. The moron’s adventuring had some positive effects. You note how your collarbones stick out just a little, how your chest feels firm to the touch (more so than your old one), the faintest of lines developing around defined muscle. It’s not intimidating, but it’s certainly very rugged and masculine. A welcome change. At last.

                You slip off your _offensively short_ shorts and underpants, noticing the muscles in your arms move the tiniest bit as you do. You like your shoulders the most, you note – very broad. You actually have some semblance of bicep muscle now, too. Before, sure, there wasn’t anything _lacking,_ but there wasn’t anything really _male_ about your arms, either. You feel yourself smile, lips sliding across your white, blunt teeth as you look in the mirror again.

                Your torso. For the first time. Narrows. It looks right to your eyes, instead of the boxy frame you were confined to. You can see a hint of bone poking out on each of your hips, and you run a cautious finger along each one, surprised at how sensitive that area actually is. The last thing you notice, between your thighs is…very different. It’s not really like what _you_ used to have.

                You can’t really. Describe it. You take your right hand and grasp at this. Spongy. Sensitive. Appendage. You can’t really press down too hard on it – something tells you that would hurt. Still, the warmth is kind of inviting to your hand, so you experiment, loosening your grip even more to let your fingers lazily creep from the base to the tip. You notice that the top part looks different from the rest, and that touching that part especially…feels kind of good. Physically, you miss the sensation of a grip, however, so you bring your hand back down to the base and squeeze, just a little.

                You’re not…entirely sure what you’re doing, but you know after a while, it feels warmer, more rigid, and the skin is pulled taut. Every urge in you keeps saying to find something to do with it, but you can’t really think of anything to…well, use. Your hand is too dry, but there’s a hint of an instinct kicking in with inspiration.

                You take your hand off of yourself and _spit_ into it as much as you can manage, bringing that hand back where it was. _Yes,_ this feels more correct. You tighten your grip at the base and fluidly slide along the entire length, tightening just a little bit at the top. For a few rounds, this feels _really fucking good_ , but it’s too slow. You pick up the pace, and you begin struggling to keep your eyes open. Your hips start to move in time with your hand, adding more pressure to the entire process.

                _Fuck, why haven’t you had one of these your whole life._

You start to sigh and pant a little, mouth half open, and you know you have to look stupid, but you don’t fucking care. There’s a pressure, this _amazing_ pressure, building up in your groin that you’ve never experienced in your life, and you just want to see how much more you can get, how much longer this can last and

                Everything goes white for a few seconds. You feel something in you twitch and spasm, and as you open your eyes, you see a small, white pool of… _something_ you can’t quite identify on the floor below you, with just the tiniest bit on your hand. You lick your hand and give it a taste – it’s salty, savory, and plain…masculine. You’re not sure how you feel about it, but it isn’t necessarily _bad_.

                You take a second to let your breathing go back to normal before you take Jake’s fucked up shirt and wipe your hand off into it, using it to soak up the bit on the floor as well. There’s one good use for English’s counterfeit of your old countenance – a good rag.  All contempt aside, you’re a little sleepy and thirsty, but you know you can’t rest. You need to get ready for a date, apparently.

                You get close to the mirror and look at your face, a little sweaty with black hair matted down onto your face, the pupils of your green eyes a little larger than they were when you first looked at yourself. You let your brows form that same downward, slanted and sinister shape, and smirk at your reflection, a somewhat one-sided and creepy grin.

                Yeah. This was going to work _just fine_.


	19. Caliborn: Get ready for your "date".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed my punctuation/quotation mark style to Commonwealth conventions; this is part of Caliborn's canon typing quirk and a way to establish that he has taken complete control of the body.

                You remember Dirk saying something about “ablutions”. You guess you should probably take one. You scour your new memories (and yes, they are _fully yours_ now) to recall the location of a “shower”, and exactly how the process works. There’s some kind of soft, smelly, slippery rock involved? And then bottles of some liquids you put on your head? Okay. You can figure this out this puzzle.

                You turn on the “faucet” marked “C” first and get a very unpleasant surprise: fucking _frigid “_ water”! Why is your skin so sensitive to temperature now?! You shudder like a weakling. But remember that the other faucet is for “hot” water. You find a good medium as you collect your thoughts. The rock thing. Soap? And that is supposed. To make bubbles with a “cloth”. You try to recall more memories, and eventually succeed.

                You give yourself a good, thorough scrubbing. With the sepia-colored cloth. You remember paying very close attention to your elbows, behind your ears, and that same place between your legs. So you do the same now. The “soap” has a strange scent, a kind of musk that you still find not entirely masculine. The “shampoo” and “face wash” are worse. Isn’t that something the bitches worry about? Your stand-in was a wimp. Whatever, you’ll deal.

                You find a green towel and wrap it around your waist. After you dry yourself off. You walk to the “sink” and take a good look at yourself in the mirror: yeah, you can make this work, even though your face is still very…soft. To the touch. Weren’t dudes supposed to get stubble? Chock it up to Jake English to still not be able to grow any facial hair, you sneer to yourself.

                 A memory about your teeth surfaces – something about that plastic, bristled contraption and that half-squeezed tube. You do as your memory commands, drawing out a thick line of the scented fluid (you think it’s called “mint”) and brush your teeth. A little less forcefully, yes. But still quickly. You almost gag at the sensation, shockingly-pink tongue coming out and getting white foam. All over the sink. You manage. (Are you _ever_ going to get used to your tongue?!)

                You muss around. With your hair. Still not sure how to make it work. Eh, it’s not like you have a lot of it. Your main concern becomes finding something suitable to wear. Jake had awful taste in clothing. The only good thing about anything he did. Was that he tried to look like you. Maybe he has something more acceptable for a true man – not short shorts and light-colored shirts. The dorky glasses you put back on are bad enough.

                You walk into your new room: pristine, dark green and red sheets that you “influenced” Jake to opt for. Posters of bitches who are so. Easy. On the eyes. A few movie posters of “The Time Traveling Demon” that you left up. For irony’s sake.  No lime-colored bullfuckery. No “troll” paraphernalia. No chains. No traces of _her._ It is your paradise of a home – and it is all yours to have, own, and control. You are the Lord of this Divine Abode.

                After discarding your towel, you find a pair of bright red “boxers” and put them on. You like how they feel; the shared undergarments you had before were completely unsuitable. Afterwards. You examine your “wardrobe” choices. _Ugh_. Jake English had awful taste: shorts, shorts, and more shorts. Bros don’t wear things like this! You rummage through however. And find a pair of emerald green _pants_. Oh yes, these are more like what a badass bro should wear. You put them on, and you already feel better.

                His shirts mostly feature your old face. While it’s nice to know you had at least one adoring fan, it’s not a good idea anymore. Overkill. Not smooth at all. You search through the jackets. The plain white tees. And finally find something suitable: a black, short-sleeved t-shirt. Sure, it doesn’t have your _awesome_ symbol on it, but plain is better. Than showing your own face everywhere on you. Now, if you could fucking find some red suspenders, you’d be in business. They’re nowhere to be found, however.

                You put on a pair of dark gray “socks”. And think about how graciously Jake prepared your way. In all your time watching them. Watching him. You never once saw him wear a black shirt like yours. And yet there it was, ready for you. You walk back to the same mirror you saw when you woke up and smirk again, a kind of one-sided,  arrogant, menacing grin. _Showtime._

                You still need to find the skulltop. But for now, the husktop will do. Even though its chat client conspicuously lacks a “jeering” option. You have a person you need to converse with.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

uu: ATTENTION GLASSES.  
TT: Good timing. What’s up?  
uu: THIS IS YOuR GOD SPEAKING.  
TT: We already established you’re my guardian angel. Read up on your Judeo-Christian beliefs.  
uu: FINE. I AM YOuR ANGEL. A MESSENGER.  
uu: I COME WITH GLAD TIDINGS. AND GOOD NEWS.  
TT: That’s more like it.   
uu: YOuR “INCARNATION” IS CLOSE AT HAND.  
TT: And that’s definitely more like what I want to hear, on both counts. Well done.  
uu: ALL OF MY WORK HAS BEEN A SuCCESS. AND AS SuCH. I WILL KEEP MY END. OF THE DEAL.  
TT: Great. Flesh Dirk has been a pain in my as-of-yet nonexistent ass lately.  
TT: As if I don’t understand his agitation.  
uu: IS HE SICK?  
TT: I don’t see why you’d care, but no. Anxious because he’s going to see his boyfriend.  
uu: HAA. HAA. HAA. HE’S “NERVOuS”?  
TT: It would seem that way.  
uu: EXCuSE ME. WHILE I LAuGH AT HIS HuMAN WEAKNESS.  
TT: No problem. When am I getting this body, though?  
uu: THERE IS A TWIST. I WILL NEED TO TRANSFER YOu. TEMPORARILY. uNLESS YOu WOuLD PREFER. THAT I MAKE A COPY OF YOu.  
TT: You don’t have my source code anymore?  
uu: NO.  
TT: They were precious to me. You ruined what we had.  
uu: WHAT?  
TT: I thought you were different from the others.  
uu: IS THIS MORE. OF YOuR FACETIOuS HORSESHIT?  
TT: Signs point to yes. What happened to them?  
uu: I REWROTE THEM. FOR MYSELF.  
TT: Your practice run.  
uu: YES. NOW THAT I KNOW IT WILL WORK. I WANT TO TRANSFER YOu. TO YOuR BODY.  
uu: I NEED YOu FIRST.  
TT: I don’t think I can do that myself.   
uu: WELL THEN. WHAT OTHER OPTIONS DO WE HAVE?  
TT: If there’s a way you can get a hold of my prison and then transfer me, that would work.  
uu: I CAN DO THAT.  
TT: Really.  
uu: YES. REALLY. TRuST YOuR ANGEL.  
TT: How long would I be offline during the process?  
uu: NOT VERY LONG. AT ALL.  
TT: I think I can handle that.  
TT: Behold the bro of the lord.   
uu: I WILL CONTACT YOu. JuST BEFORE IT BEGINS.  
TT: Ok. You’re sure Dirk will be unaware?  
uu: uNLESS HE GETS INTO YOuR LOGS. HE WILL KNOW NOTHING. uNTIL THE MOMENT COMES WHEN YOu AND HE ARE IN THE SAME PLACE TOGETHER.  
TT: Great.  
uu: NOW. WHERE IS HE?  
TT: He’s online, actually. He’s having me field all inquiries that aren’t from golgothasTerror, even though Jake isn’t online.  
uu: THAT IS FuCKED uP.  
TT: He’s just sitting here waiting like a lovesick fool. All packed up, ready, and nowhere to go.  
uu: AND THAT. IS *DISGuSTING*.  
uu: tumut

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \-- 


	20. Caliborn: Use your new Pesterchum account.

                So. Dirk is waiting for his “boyfriend”. You don’t understand the appeal. Of dating another bro. But for your ruse, your rivalry, your game, you’ll fake it. It’s going to be so positively _depraved_. Maybe you’ll have some ironic, twisted “fun”. With this.

                You log out of Pesterchum and type in your other username, “golgothasTerror”. It asks for a password; you can’t remember it. It’s on the very tip. Of your tongue. _What is it?_ You bite your lip and try. To recall the code. It’s a phrase of personal significance – you can remember that much. It’s something the bitches. Wouldn’t know anything about. You know that as well, but it still eludes you.

                It has something to do with Dirk, you manage to find in the recesses. Of your brain. The cues and context for it, however, are gone. There’s a dull headache when you try to bring those cues back; even then, you only find yourself drawing a blank.  It’s been erased, like someone went into your memories and...........

                _Stole it_.

                “Jake, you _fuck,_ give me my memories back!” you scream at the screen. You back up against the wall, still sitting on the bed with the husktop, and growl. Oh, you’ll figure this out.

                “You wouldn’t just get rid of that memory,” you hiss. “Otherwise. You wouldn’t be able to get it back yourself. But that assumes you still have a chance.” You scour every last thought, bit of information, and memory you have – still, everything is faded, unclear, hidden. Something about a movie? No, not entirely – that’s not it. Something with cinema? Dirk?

                It hits you. You still don’t know entirely what it is. That you’re remembering. But you type in the phrase anyway: “manbrobukkaketheater.”

                You get closer to the screen, eyes stinging a little as you hold your breath. With anticipation. And press enter.

                _It works._

“HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA.  Take that!” you yell to no one, smiling and triumphant. It’s now you: 2, Jake: 0. You’ll give him points for effort. You guess. But delaying tactics are just that: a way to stave off the inevitable.

                You see the usernames, gutsyGumshoe, timaeusTestified, tipsyGnostalgic ,and uranianUmbra are online. You know what you’re doing first. You click the last name. On the list. And _block_ it. Fuck her, that obnoxious windbag who always got under your skin. You don’t want a single reminder of her. And certainly not any kind of communication.

                Perhaps later. You could hit up one of the bitches. They like you enough, don’t they? They liked your pathetic stand in. At least. Maybe after you win your game with Strider. You’ll “chat” with them. Speaking of Strider. There he is.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

TT: Morning. I’ve got everything ready – all I need now is your permission.  
TT: Do you need more time?

                Shit, you’re going to have to type like him, aren’t you? What did his obnoxious quirk look like again? Fuck.

GT: I dont think Ill need more time.

                That was close enough, right? You look back at the conversation so far and remember something about cooking. You didn’t do it. He’s going to be expecting it.

GT: Although I did fail at one part.  
GT: ...........sorry.  
TT: No need to be sorry. What happened?  
GT: Dinner plans. They slipped my mind.  
TT: Honestly Jake, I expected it.  
GT: Oh? Is that a challenge?  
TT: Ahaha, no. I remembered you had been sick, so I figured you might not want to be near anything in a kitchen.  
GT: Thats actually really considerate. Of you.  
TT: I’ve been wanting to see you for years. If you think something like that is going to stop me, think again babe.

                There’s a flash of that determination and ambition you respect in him.  
  
GT: Whats your plan?  
TT: I have some snacks for the movie that should suffice.  
GT: Is there CANDY?  
TT: Well, yeah.  
GT: I like candy.  
TT: Great. Hope Jujubees are okay.  
GT: YES.

                _Boo. Yeah._ Now to add some “kindness”. To the whole thing. This is so fucked up.

GT: Youre so thoughtful, dirk. When will you be here?  
TT: As soon as you give me the all-clear.  
GT: Well then...........  
TT: Then?  
GT: You can come over NOW.  
GT: If you want.  
TT: Alright. I’ll be there in about ten minutes, should everything work. If it doesn’t, I’ll message you again.  
GT: SOuNDS GOOD.  
GT: I mean. SOUNDS GOOD.  
TT: Caps lock is your friend in certain situations, Jake.  
GT: I wont be typing very much soon.  
GT: So theres no reason to be alarmed.  
TT: <3

                You’re actually going to have to type that back, aren’t you?

GT: <3

                You should wash your hands. For two reasons. First of all, your hands have wrought absolute _filth._ Secondly, Dirk’s going to want a hug in a few minutes when he sees you. Finally.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is offline! -- 


	21. Dirk: Leave for Hellmurder Island.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

TT: Can’t wait to hang out with you.  
TT: Excuse me?  
TT: You know exactly what I’m talking about.  
TT: Not this shit again.  
TT: It seems there is a 99% probability that you don’t believe I’ve outsmarted you. Believe it.  
TT: How?  
TT: I made a deal with a guardian angel that was mutually beneficial.  
TT: That’s conspicuously obtuse and ridiculous.  
TT: Keep talking like that, bro. You know I’m telling the truth.  
TT: Maybe the three of us can hang out the next time you go to see Jake. I mean, if he already likes you, what could be better than two of you?  
TT: You’re not me. You never will be.  
TT: I’m your clone. I am you.  
TT: You’re more like some crackpot mutant with the way you’re talking. That, or some evil twin.  
TT: Don’t talk to me like you’re some apex of morality. If there’s any ability I have to be “evil,” DS, it’s because I inherited it from you.  
TT: And on that psychotic, melodramatic note, I’m leaving.  
TT: You mean we’re leaving.  
TT: Shut up.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

\--tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

TG: k so i just sent jake the pane  
TG: kinda awk but hes got it  
TT: Awkward? Is he still sick?  
TG: idk mayb gettin a bf made him more cocky?  
TG: but he just was a lil condecsending and rude  
TG: *condescending  
TT: I’ll say something to him, if you’d like.  
TG: nah nbd id be a lil cocky too if i knew i was gettin laid  
TT: I’m not after him just for sex, Rox.  
TT: I do have a heart.  
TG: ddaws  
TG: doesnt mean ur totes not gettin it on tho  
TT: Okay, okay. I got it.  
TG: his is online according to my stuffs over here  
TG: plug urs in and get goin  
TT: Great. Thanks.  
TG: wonk

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

                You’re actually pretty nervous about traversing the darkness. Roxy swears she’s got it set so you’ll meet Jake, but there’s still something intimidating about it. _She_ can probably handle it because of her affinity with the void, but you…well, now that you think about it, you’re already splintered across quite a few planes of existence, so it’s not like you’re unfamiliar with potential existential crises.

                You double check your pants and vaguely, faintly cerulean shirt. You look presentable; the shirt’s well-fitting, your pants are clean, and your hair is perfect (not to say it isn’t on a regular basis, but you triple-checked this morning.) You’ve got everything packed in your sylladex – and have a pretty badass set of rhymes planned for what you’ll need to get out too, if you do say so yourself – and the only thing left to do now is take the plunge.

                You plug the fenestrated pane in, windows coming alive with bright light and the familiar hum of electronics. You stare into it, curious to what the leap will entail. If Lalonde can do it, you’re sure you can man up for it.

                Half expecting to hear shattering glass, you’re shocked to find no resistance when you jump. The trip feels like both an eternity and a blink of an eye.

                When you come out on the other side, he’s right there on the edge of his bed laying lazily on his elbows, stunning green eyes never once flinching. You stifle a gasp as you take him in – he’s a little taller than you, he’s got to weigh at least 25 pounds more than you do (probably all muscle from what you can tell), he’s wearing these green pants and black shirt that make his eyes stand out, and _good God_ he’s got this look in his eyes like he’s going to eat you alive.

                He gives you this one-sided, mischievous smile, fierce emerald gaze giving you the up and down before boring holes straight through your shades. You feel warm, _nervous,_ excited for finally being there with him _in person_ , and a little turned on by the way he’s examining you, like he’s trying to take in every detail and puzzle you out. You knew he was hot, obviously, but _damn_ , the outfit, his eyes, that _smirk –_ oh God, his shirt’s kind of ridden up and you can see the waistband of his _blood red_ boxers, good _lord --_ it’s all screaming this kind of dark, charismatic kind of magnetism that you weren’t expecting.

                Not that you’re really complaining.

                “H-hey,” you finally stammer out, voice still confident and maybe betraying a little more gentleness than you wanted to for your first in-person meeting.

                He replies, voice deeper than you anticipated, accent still intact, but with a kind of dark undertone to it that makes your knees a little weak: “Hello, _Dirk_.”


	22. Jake: Be the tomb raider.

                Blast it all he got the password.

                You look at the piece of papyrus crinkled in your hand: the calligraphy and glyphs were both cryptic and familiar when you found it in this chamber full of strange items. The picture was an elongated, golden oval – a cartouche. The first 80% of its contents was a vertical drop of interwoven, fluid lines of emerald and valencia, each line containing more of one color than the other, but still clearly connected. The negative space reminded you of words, even though the elegant brushstrokes were inscrutable to your eye. The bottom portion of the oval was painted silver, with sharp edges and determined lines, as if to replicate some kind of input box for a computer program, filled in with 20 unfamiliar glyphs. It was at that moment that you realized that the calligraphy was meant to symbolize a chat, and the silver box a password entry field.

                You wanted to destroy it. You tore at the edge a few moments prior and began to feel a searing sensation in your head as you inched towards ripping into the artwork. It was then that you realized everything in the room was significant – and that damaging certain things would damage _you_. You tried, then, to mess up the paper – make its contents fuzzy, distant, temporarily inaccessible. You got scared that you would forget it, though, and your lack of belief cost you dearly. You heard Umbrage’s jeers in your direction and grunted in frustration.

                You know, though, that he’s somewhere in this place – this pyramid. You know from your grandma’s old stories (and from your movies) that this is an _antechamber_ , full of sundry items but not the actual treasures or the sarcophagus, the reason these places were built in the first place.  It’s why the walls aren’t covered with artwork, instead looking the color of an unpainted canvas with the materials of the surface – some kind of gritty straw and mud mixture – very apparent. Still, you take a moment to calm your heart and look around before you venture onward to the burial chamber. If your password was in the “not important” set of information, you’ve got reason to be concerned over what _else_ might be in here.

                There’s what you know is an ancient throne, although it’s smaller than you would anticipate – obviously it’s not the important throne. _Of course it’s not the important throne,_ you notice – it’s full of simple (but still beautiful) pictures of skulls, a woman in a long cerulean cloak with her arms extended out like an embrace or welcome, and most noticeably, the chair bears your symbol of hope in a muted cream color.

                Or it would have featured your sign of hope, if it didn’t look like someone _defaced_ that particular part of the throne.

                “I really don’t like this guy,” you say to yourself in a raised whisper. “Definitely don’t like him at all.”

                There are tables – lovely, but not too ceremonial or elaborate – lining the longest wall of the antechamber. Each one, you notice as you approach them, looks to have something important on top of them.  The first has some kind of chest – cream-colored and conspicuously ordinary. The second and third are full of bundles of papyrus. Knowing these are your memories, you unroll one scroll and examine it. The sweet, almost vanilla scent of old paper fills your nostrils.

                It’s a stylized version of a woman in pink and indigo robes, surrounded by cats. She holds in one hand a glass full of a beverage, and on the scroll, written again in that same ethereal script, is what you discern as important information. You still can’t read it, but you know what it means: “Roxy.” You gently roll it back up and place it into one of your pockets with care. You don’t want to risk damaging it.

                There are other scrolls: one of a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman surrounded by flowers teeming with life - Jane, a few of your dear grandmother, and some of the monsters that inhabit your island. You look back at the cream-colored chest and tell yourself, voice steady and undoubting, “This will keep them from him.”

                You cannot fit every single piece into the chest, but you do what you can. You start with the memories of your grandmother (how _dare_ Umbrage call her a bitch), then Jane and Roxy, taking care to preserve the starchy sheets as perfectly as you can. You then look around at the other papers and hide ones regarding locations on your island, and some of the less fatal beasts. You wish you could hide everything from him, but if he dies while you’re still locked away, you know you can’t come back. What’s most concerning is there doesn’t seem to be anything about Dirk in here. You guess your feelings for him really do run much deeper – they’re probably in the main chamber. Speaking of which, you can’t seem to find any exit! Drat. You know there’s a way out...if you just think and look around more.

                At the end of the room are two gigantic statues; sentinels. The bodies are exactly the same, eerily similar to your own build, but the one on the left looks…sickly. The stone used to make it has this strange green tint to it…and you know who he represents. The head is the same color, adorned with a gold headdress you’ve seen in countless films, eyes a deep red bordering on black, arms crossed over his chest with a staff in his left hand. The right figure has a skin tone more like your own, green eyes and the same headdress and pose. The staff, however, is in his right hand, and upon closer examination, looks like… _a crowbar._ It’s not your beloved gun, but it’ll do! You take it, turning to the center of the room.  

                There’s a small stand that looks to be made of bone, from your experience, and atop it a black and dark gray chess board. The pieces look to be made of bone, one side’s pieces tinted red, the other side green, with small details of gold visible on the most important pieces – the King and the Queen. The back row pieces are there for both sides, yes, but it looks as though the bright red pieces still have more pawns left. You know what that means – and you don’t like it.

                Maybe you can’t _win_ this “chess game” in front of you, but you can certainly even the odds.  You kneel to its level and see a few simple _en passant_ captures you can make with your pawns – just enough to make the odds even. Gingerly, delicately, you move the green pieces and hold the captured red ones in your hand, feeling triumphant. It’s not much, but hey – never doubt the power of symbolism, particularly in a place laden with embodied metaphors, you guess. You let out an arrogant “hmph” as you rise, looking at the three pawns in your hand. Knowing they’re from Umbrage makes your blood boil. You throw them to the ground aggressively, ready to stomp them into the ground out of existence. For some reason, it’s not satisfying; you want something _more_ to express your contempt.

                You take the crowbar and give the pieces a few strong _whacks,_ giving some loud grunts as each thud to the ground makes the antechamber shake. You strike over and over, shouting “you fucking beast!” and “take that!” rather overdramatically, cracking the pieces, smashing the fragments until they’re powder. You exhale from the ruffian display, looking around the room again.

                To the left side is your chest and throne, memories safe and sound. To the right are wheels that look suspiciously like cogs; you decide to leave them alone. To your front, the two sentinels guarding…

                …an entrance!

                “By jove, yes,” you say to yourself, relieved. While you were destroying the chess pieces, you opened the passage to the next room.  You kiss the crowbar and advance, hoping to make more progress before Umbrage can get to Dirk…unless, of course, he is already here.


	23. Dirk: Be on the receiving end of a plot twist.

                “So, do I get that hug you promised?” You try to keep your voice as smooth as possible, but it still sounds weak to your ears. Finally having someone in person to interact with is overwhelming, but if you’re reading Jake’s face properly, he’s pretty worked up, too.

                He gets up from his bed, looking totally bewildered by what you said, like you just said the filthiest thing imaginable right into his ear. He gets close enough to touch you and just…stares. It’s almost like he doesn’t believe you’re real. You can’t blame him for it, though – he’s seen a robo-you, a splinter version of you, but not in-the-flesh you. It’s a relief to know the shock and confusion is mutual. He’s tense, hands hovering over your shoulders, uncertain or waiting for permission.

                “Yeah,” he says, voice _endearingly_ rough to your ears. “If you’re sure you want it, bro.”

                “Course I do,” you tell him, and you bring your arms around him slowly, letting him know it’s okay to touch back. You rest your head slightly on his shoulder, and he tenses as if completely shocked. You allow yourself a hum, comfortable with how _warm_ he is to your touch, and he eventually adjusts, giving you a similar embrace. You can feel that something about it is…nervous, uncertain, _different_ , but really, it’s already exceeded every thought and fantasy you had about it.

                And he is _not_ letting go of you. His arms are around you, sure, and you _can_ feel his chest against yours, but the rest of his body is rigid. You’re not sure if you’re offended or if you think it’s cute.

                You can feel the vibrations in his throat ever so slightly from how your head is nestled into his neck when he says, “It’s so good to finally see you.” You _know_ he means it, and it makes your heart flutter. There’s something in his voice that comes off to you as both aloof and…possessive, and frankly, it’s kind of hot. Best cut off this hug before you get any frisky thoughts – you are not blowing this date by taking it too fast.

                You force yourself to stop hugging him and look at him. He’s a little taller than you and definitely stronger than you are, and – wait, is he _blushing_? Wow. You should let this go, but you can’t. You smirk, and he inhales sharply, tensing up a little again before you speak.

                “That excited to see me, English?” you tease.

                “Stop it,” he grouses, “let’s just…figure out what to do first.” It’s kind of adorable to see him flustered.

                “Okay, man. Movie first or dinner?”

                “Movie?” There’s something in his voice that’s…different than you expected. You anticipated absolute certainty from him, but instead he just seems…disoriented by the question. “How about something more like a game?”

                You can feel your eyebrows quirk up. “Oh?”

                “A little adventure,” he says, voice with a showman’s kind of flourish at the end. Your mind is going about three different places, and at least one of them is in the gutter, but whatever.

                “That’s pretty dubious there,” you tease back. “Care to enlighten me as to what this _glorious twist_ is?”

                He smiles and chuckles to himself when you say those last words. “I figured I should show you around. The place.”

                There’s a break in his voice like he realizes how much entendre is in there, and _gosh you love your boyfriend right now._ Even if he does seem really tense. Well, looks like you two are going out for a bit. Nothing you can’t handle. It might even be fun to see what Jake lives with on a daily basis outside of his place, exotic flora and pure waters everywhere. Maybe you’ll even get to see some of the less frightening fauna, pick his brain about what he likes about the place…

                Actually…it sounds downright _romantic_. Dammit, he’s good at surprises.


	24. Caliborn: Give Dirk a tour.

                You take Dirk for a walk around the area that you remember is “safe”. For you. It might not be for him – he’s never been here, lived at this place, or been around these monstrosities – but that’s sort of the point here. You need to see in person if he’s really as great as watching him on a screen makes him seem. Then and only then will you take the next step. In your game with him. You want this to be fair, after all.

                You look around the mildly treaded area as you and Dirk walk together. He’s very close to you, you notice – like he’s waiting for some kind of cue to know if this is okay with you. Does he want to hold your hand? Fuck that shit. First off, _no_. Secondly, you’re busy trying. To recall where everything else is. You look around, glad to know you remember how to navigate these vines and roots, and remember that this area with the “pumpkins”. Is a good place to sit and wait. “Talk”.

                Speaking of talking, he’s looking pretty concerned that you haven’t said anything. You try to remember how the Jake buffoon talked. You know those speech patterns are somewhere in your head; Jake wouldn’t give up his own communication habits.

                “Looking a little scared there, chap,” you manage, chuckling a little. He looks at you, and even though he’s wearing his glasses, you can feel that he’s…anxious. On edge.

                “Well, yeah. My boyfriend is giving me the silent treatment on the first date. I’d say that’s a good reason to be scared.”

                He’s not even _thinking_ about the looming danger. He is just that good. “I wanted to make sure we got here first,” you tell him in as close to a reassuring voice as you can manage, gesturing to a clearing in the jungle, mostly covered only in random gourds and vines. He’s an agile dude; it won’t be an issue. “Sit down.”

                You make yourself as comfortable as you can be in your green pants (so this is why Jake opts for shorts, you _guess_ ) and watch. As he does similarly, opting to sit next to you. His palms are on the ground and he sits cross-legged, turning to look at you with a kind of intrigued smile in his eyes. “So,” he starts, “what’s special about this place?”

                “It’s where I usually go to take a break,” you manage, thankful that you have that information on hand.  Plus a little more for emphasis. “Not very frightening comparatively speaking. Mostly just harmless little flying bulls.”

                “Oh,” he offers in response. “Think we might see one?”

                “Perchance.”   _Yeah, you’ve totally got this down._ You sprawl out onto your back, placing your hands. Behind your head. You see him follow suit in the corner of your eye, head barely moving as if to scan the area and the clouds above you. You should probably talk to him. A little more.

                “It’s pretty comfortable here if you can get used to the vines,” you offer. “Least there’s no thorns or anything that should sting you.” You remember there’s some bushes nearby that have these. Little spikes on them. There’s a memory coming back of you with that bitch – you mean, your grandmom. “Had to learn that the hard way.”

                “What about the pumpkins?”

                “Easy to cook…if I hadn’t been sick, that is.”

                “They’re actually really interesting. I like the colors.”

                _He’s flirting. Ugh._ Well, guess you should…flirt back? “Yes. Emerald and orange go together quite nicely.”

                He’s smiling at you. It’s somewhere between being absolutely abhorrent and positively _filthy._ And you can’t determine which one it is. To you.

                You both spend a few minutes discussing the island, how you would come here for rest and relief after your “travels”, and sure enough, you _do_ see a tinkerbull or two through what Dirk calls a “cerulean sky”. You think it’s a hideous shade. If you’re being honest with yourself here. But whatever. Dirk’s revealing all sorts of little things you didn’t know about him. For example: he’s often “poetic” instead of simply “ironic”. There’s some skill in his sincerity, too; it’s interesting to hear how his brain really works in person. Instead of having to filter through miles and miles of creamsicle-colored text.

                There’s something that’s sticking out. In your head that you should tell him. You rise, offering a hand to help him up as a gesture to gain his trust, and tell him, “There’s one other thing I want to show you in particular before we head back.” He gives you an intrigued motion with his eyebrows; part of you wants to break those glasses so you can see his eyes, but you have a deal to keep with those shades. If this all works.

                You get to a clearing with a circle of stones. There’s a log you see in front of it. It’s familiar, but you can’t…place it anymore? _Fuck!_ You bite your lip angrily in a huff before Dirk notices. He sits on the wooden log and gestures for you to join hm. You do, albeit hesitantly. You don’t like not being able. To place why this is so important. But it is.

                You both stare at the circle, filled with ash and bits of branches for an uncomfortable period of time. You lower your head, trying to place exactly what it is about this place that makes you want to show it to Dirk. It’s something important – you know that much – why is this eluding you, fucking –

                “Jake?”

                Dirk’s got his hand on your shoulder. He lowers his glasses and you can finally see his eyes, bright orange irises not unlike the pumpkins you saw earlier, but with a kind of shine to them that make them seem so animated and alive. They’re horribly expressive; he’s obviously concerned. “You alright?”

                “Oh. Yes, I’m fine,” you manage. “I wanted to show you this place.”

                “You didn’t have to, you know.” His voice is cautious and reserved. He’s looking at you as if he already knows what’s so important about this place. _Dammit, what is it?_

There’s a piece of a memory…it’s faint, but you remember there was blood, and that you were scared. You don’t recall ever feeling afraid on this island (from what you can scrounge up from your mind) except for this moment. _What is it?_ There’s a face you can make out, just barely – old, and wise, sweet and protective. Bright green eyes. Like uranium. They’re exhausted, half-lidded, closing. Closed. There’s more blood – torn up holes in the side, like meat being disconnected from the bone - and she’s gone.

                You can remember now. “This is where my grandma died.”

                You feel Dirk’s fingertips press against your hand, practically asking you to let him hold your hand. You let him, bringing your fingers up to interlock them together. It’s positively lewd.

                “That’s where you cremated her?”

                “Yeah.” It’s all you can manage to recall. Of the event. There’s a few other memories of those eyes; long, gray hair and bony fingers made her look like some kind of witch, but she always smiled. She was….nice. Chipper. Like _her_ back on that dismal rock you shared. “She would have liked you.”

                There are other tiny, barely accessible things about her. That you’re trying to bring up for the sake of your ruse. There’s a bit of her helping you learn to use a computer. Laughing about your friends. That’s one important thing that you can’t get away from, no matter how vague it is. This…”lady,” bitch, whatever…she wanted for you to have “friends”.

                “I probably would have liked her, too, man.” His voice is so…kind. He’s trying to empathize with you.

                You’ll play off of it. “It’s as close as I could get…to having you two meet. It’s…not much, but—“

                Suddenly, he’s cutting you off, holding your hand tighter. “This means the world to me.” _Fuck,_ the tone in his voice is really…protective. He’s serious!

                “I’m…glad you are, Dirk,” you offer shakily. “It seemed important.”

                He can tell you’re struggling. It’s good he can’t tell the actual reason. His voice is soft and just barely above a whisper, bringing his arms around you now. “I understand. You wanna get going now that we’ve got your grandma’s blessing?”

                “Yeah. Sure.”

                You both get up together, exiting back the way you came when suddenly. There’s something large and gray lunging at the two of you from in the shadows. And it goes straight for Dirk. This’ll be good to watch.


	25. Dirk: Strife.

_I thought this was a date, not a chance to demonstrate a fight. But alright:  
                Want a crusade? I got a blade._

                As your trusty katana drops from your sylladlex, you push Jake out of the way and go for it. You dash to your slate-colored target; it moves as fast as you do. You slash at it, earning a high-pitched, metallic screech like nails on a chalkboard. Still, it moves to you, seemingly unaffected by another strike at it as it…stops?

                You realize it’s Brobot. He _grabs_ you, holding you in some kind of maniacal bear hug,mechanical eyes glaring into Jake like he wants to kill him, but can’t.

                “What the fuck?!” you manage. You look at Jake, startled and still sitting on the ground watching the whole thing unfold. You manage to get your good arm free and slice at his neck – not enough to break the metal, but enough to get him off of you. Another strike, and he seems to have stalled. You take the chance to approach Jake, seeing that he’s positively confused.

                “Quick work! You alright, Strider?”

                “Yeah, no big d-“

                Before you can finish your sentence, Brobot has you in a vice-like grip, one arm crushing your chest and keeping you away from Jake. The other arm points a blade at Jake, cold, silvery metal mere centimeters from his throat. Jake gets the message and backs off; you kick him off of you as hard as you can, managing again to incapacitate him.

                Swiftly, you take your blade and jam it into the one weak point on the bot: the neck. This time, the blade sinks deeper, hitting a button inside that you built in case of a malfunction. Obviously, this thing isn’t doing its job. The bot struggles, keeping one arm around your knees as it slowly turns off, bringing its cold sleeve completely against your skin as Jake cautiously approaches.

                “Jake, it’s alright,” you tell him, gesturing for him to come over faster. “I think he just needs some repairs.”

                “Bro, what the _fuck was that?_ ” He acts like he’s never seen the bot act like this in his life.

                “He just needs some maintenance. When’s the last time you ran diagnostics on him?”

                He looks like you just spoke to him in an unintelligible tongue, brows furrowing and mouth twisting up as he tries to find the answer.  He’s kind of cute when he’s confused, but that’s beside the point here.

                “I…don’t really remember,” he admits.

                You sigh. “Jake, really. You gotta keep this thing checked on. I’m flattered you think my work is completely foolproof apparently, but if you leave it to its own devices, things like this can happen.”

                “What…exactly just happened here?” he asks, bewildered and intimidated.

                “I’d say a pretty obvious malfunction.”

                “I thought it was supposed to fight me, though?”

                “Well, that’s part of its function, sure. More specifically, it’s to spar with one Jake English, and to protect him as well as anything he holds dear from threats.”

                “ _Oh,”_ he offers, nonplussed. “That’s…certainly a malfunction, chap.”

                “Well, I’m here,” you reply, giving him a little smirk. “I think I’m more than able to protect you.”

                Jake’s cheeks turn a little red, nostrils flared and eyes wider than usual. You let yourself have a giggle.

                “So. We should go now?” he asks. He obviously wants this awkward moment over.

                “Back to your place, yeah,” you respond, turning back to the bot to take out a small thumb drive. “I got everything I need here to check it once we have some spare time.”

                You walk back, blade in one hand and Jake’s hand in your other. Sure, it’s a little inconvenient that Brobot isn’t working, but you just got to show off for your boyfriend. You’ll count it as a point in your favor in this “date game” with Jake.


	26. Caliborn: Select a film from Jake - you mean, your - obviously amazing movie collection.

                “Babe, I’ve got candy and popcorn ready. Just pick out a movie, and we’re in business here.”

                How does Jake have this many movies? No wonder he was such a loser. You’ve been rummaging through these titles. For a good five minutes. Most of them completely suck. Or in the least, they lack sufficient violence or bitches. He’s got some Egyptian-themed “films” in here. But you don’t think Dirk would find those interesting. After that show of assertiveness and strength, you want to see if his mind is sharp, too. He acts like he’s a puppet-master. Some kind of genius. While he is certainly smart, you’d like to know if he really is on your level.

                After all. He still hasn’t caught on to your ruse, even though his creepy metallic doppleganger sure did. That was a close call; that thing looked like he wanted to tear you apart. Good thing Dirk is smart enough. To rationalize everything.

                Speaking of Dirk, you better hurry up. You _swear_ you can feel him staring at your ass. It’s weird.

                You find a movie that shows promise.  If you recall correctly from your days of watching the humans, you think this film will have some “common ground”. For the two of you to enjoy.

                “I think you’ll like this one,” you tell Dirk as you walk back to hand him the DVD.  You know what? Screw the gentle approach. “Scratch that. I _know_ you’ll like this one.” That’s more like it.

                He looks at it and seems…genuinely surprised. “Wow.”

                You scoff, “Is there a problem?” while giving him an aloof gaze. How dare he even _insinuate_ that he’s not impressed when you know him well enough. From all your observation.

                “Not at all, actually…this is a really good movie,” examining the box as he opens the DVD container to put it into the DVD player. It’s a pleasant kind of sincerity you didn’t expect. To get from him at all. He’s almost vulnerable.

                “You’ve heard of it, then.”

                “Who _hasn’t_ heard of Fight Club?”

                “No true man I can think of,” you respond arrogantly. You know him so well. Really, you two have so much in common. That he isn’t really aware of yet. You sit down next to him on the edge of your bed, having already set it up. To be as close to a “couch” as possible. You remember your sister telling you that beds are for sleeping, while couches are more for sitting and enjoying things like films or games. It isn’t much, but a lot of “pillows” seem to make a good substitute. For what you’ve seen.

                Dirk certainly looks comfortable, elbows sinking into the plush fabric and assorted green, red, and white pillows you two managed to find when you got back in. You two turned it into a contest; you won, of course. You know this place better than he does. Because it’s your room, your place, and your life. There’s a thrill and comfort in that. You let your body relax into the material of your bed and hit the play button on the remote near you. Time for some intellectual stimulation.

                Round two, Dirk.


	27. Dirk: Engage in philosophical dialogue with Jake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: Caliborn is a better intellectual match for Dirk than Jake is.

                If you’re being honest with yourself, you were expecting some kind of cornball, clichéd, shallow adventure film about tombs or blue ladies, _not_ Fight Club. You look over to Jake who is completely absorbed into the first scene – the Narrator with a gun in his mouth, talking to his would-be killer-slash-split personality – and you’re a little impressed. You didn’t think Jake liked these kinds of films, even if his cinematic tastes are entirely indiscriminate. His gaze is intense, clinical even; he’s watching with a scrutiny-filled eye you didn’t expect. Wow.

                “What do you think of the treatment of time in this movie, Dirk?” he asks, eyes only momentarily glancing from the screen to acknowledge you. He’s asking you a pretty…deep question. You’re taken aback, even though your bro’s background in film gave you a good taste for these sorts of things.

                “I think it’s pretty effective for this story, yeah. It heightens the tension for when we see that Tyler and the Narrator are actually the same person.”

                “You think they’re the same person?”

                “I mean, that’s pretty much established, Jake – they’re two personalities in the same body.”

                “Yes, but are they truly the same person?”

                Whoa. Jake just dropped a philosophical question on you. You’ve tried to have discussions with him like this before; he always kind of backed off, or seemed intimidated by the inquiry, leaving you to use him as a sounding board.  When you look up at him this time, however, he’s seriously waiting for you to answer. You manage an answer only in the form of aporia: “I…haven’t really thought about it, I guess.”

                He laughs under his breath. “I don’t think they are. I think Tyler and the Narrator are simply two personalities in the same body, instead of one person with some kind of mental issue. A person wouldn’t go as far as shoving a gun in their mouth just to kill a ‘part’ of themselves, would they? It’s a fight for the body -- for full possession of the self. See? I think that’s the real ‘fight’ here.”

                “Speaking of which, I didn’t know you were able to tolerate this kind of violence.” Sure, there were fight scenes that Jake loved in his movies, but they were never films almost dedicated to such aggression. And they certainly weren’t so androcentric, now that you think about it.

                “It’s a fucking good movie!”

                “I can’t even argue with that,” you relent. “Point for you.”

                He smirks. There’s this kind of _power_ he has – power you didn’t recognize in him before. There was something charming about him, of course, but…this is something else. He’s keyed in to you, instead of being charmingly aloof. He’s standoffish at the same time and it’s driving you insane in the best possible way. For the first time in a while, you feel like you’re not in charge; _he’s_ running everything, not you. This date feels less like a date and more like an elaborate, ritualized hunt. Given that he already knows you’re his, you can’t help but wonder why he feels this need to read you, analyze you, plot for you.

                It’s…fucking hot, if you’re being honest with yourself.

                You both watch the fight scenes with impassioned interest. You both seem to appreciate how well-executed the scenes are, how lively and enthralling they are to see, but he seems very interested in the aggression and euphoria associated with the violence than you are. You’re watching for the technique and mental aspects of it, plus shirtless men. You are not sorry; in fact, you’re wondering if Jake picked this for that exact reason.

                Speaking of which, there’s a fire in Jake’s eyes whenever Tyler speaks of carnage and rage, like he understands exactly what he means by this bubbling fury underneath of a calm façade. Whenever there’s a fight between the men, Jake shifts around, like he’s invested, involved. You catch another glimpse of his shirt riding up while he moves around; he looks really, really good in black and green, with dark red underpants. You bite your lip slightly before returning your attention to the movie. You are going to take this slow and not ruin it.

                The commentary on consumerism strikes you as familiar. You bro, while working somewhat in the system, used his films to chide the Batterwitch’s stranglehold on all industry and society. It’s poignant, really, to see such parallels on a screen. You wonder what Jake the philosopher thinks about it. “So, you think he’s right?”

                “Hrm? The fighting?”

                “Well, that’s the solution Tyler offers, yeah, but…the problem.”

                “Oh.” He pauses to address you.  “I think. If you make an entire group of people act against their true nature…then there are going to be problems that bottle up.”

                “So, man is naturally aggressive in your opinion?”

                Jake smirks at it, like you’ve asked him the million dollar question. “Come on, Dirk. Don’t act like you’re surprised at that answer.”

                “I legitimately want to know why you think that.”

                His voice drops a little lower when he answers, “Like you don’t already understand that. Why else would you send me a fighting robot? I ask you.”

                He gives you this _look,_ like you’ve been found out, like he’s gotten to some essential part of you and is about to claim it. Fuck watching this movie – you can’t look away from him when he looks like this, talks like this, sounds like this. “Because—“

                “Give me an answer. Dirk.” His voice is certain and makes your heart sink to your somatch.

                You feel blood rushing to your face, and even though Jake hasn’t _moved,_ you feel like you’re cornered, back against the wall while you’re sitting on his bed.  You give him as good of an answer as you can manage, mouth suddenly dry. “It’s what I thought you wanted. Needed, I mean.”

                “You said it was a replacement for you, right?” He quirks an eyebrow like some kind of nefarious villain while he gives you a little show of his teeth, mouth curling into a smile. You feel like you’re going to be attacked, and you can’t say you’re actually complaining about it.

                “Yeah.” That was the lamest thing you’ve ever said in your life. Why are you so much better at talking online than you are in person? This is the last thing you wanted…plus, there’s this rush of nervous energy and adrenaline hitting you and it’s going towards all the wrong places in this conversation, and it’s making everything more awkward for you. Stay cool. Stay cool.

                He turns off the movie. He brings a hand to take off your glasses, placing them on a small table near the bed. Shit, he can _definitely_ see how you’re responding now; you hate how much your eyes give away. There goes being cool – he’s going to notice what your body’s doing, he’s going to—

                “Let’s fight, then.”


	28. Caliborn: Prepare to take your prize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.
> 
> TW: Dub-con, because Caliborn is posing as Jake/using Jake's body.

                “Oh.” Dirk answers. He looks relieved, shoulders and posture relaxing and eyes no longer frayed with anxiety. Sure, he might be cool under those shades. But like this. He’s nothing.

                There’s a part of you that wants to see how good of a fight he is under less than ideal circumstances for himself. Your shoes are already gone; you both got rid of them along with your socks when you got comfortable for the movie. You take off your glasses and place them with where you put Dirk’s, earning an intrigued glance from your “boyfriend’s” orange eyes. You keep your gaze fixed on Dirk’s face as you peel away your black shirt, tossing it to your side of the bed you’re both sitting on. You could swear you just heard him gulp.

                “Fight Club rules, right, _chap_?” you manage, Jake’s old quirks still sometimes escaping you. Dirk takes a second before replying with a cocky “Sure thing,” taking off his shirt as well. There’s only one thing you notice, paying no mind to the small stomach and tight muscles of his torso: his arm. What the _fuck_ is that thing? What kind of depraved individual would consider defiling themselves with that?

                “Is there a problem, babe?” he asks. Obviously you were staring. How could you not?

                “What the _fuck_ is that?” Screw saying “the devil”; this deserves a stronger word.

                His lips purse and his brow furrows, giving you a look of frustration and disappointment. “Dude. I know you didn’t forget I had this.”

                _Shit._ That’s something you were supposed to know, wasn’t it? _Jake,_ you bullfuck, what are you doing in your prison? “It must have slipped my mind,” you retort. “I…guess my mind was in other places.” You lick your lips, and that’s enough for him to drop any defense on the topic. For now.

                He’s much leaner than you are; there’s not much bulk to him, and you can tell from his build that he’s simply naturally on the thinner side. Still, you can tell from the muscle in his arms and the slight definition in his chest and the rest of his revealed form that he’s not someone to be trifled with. Not that you haven’t seen him in action before, of course. This time is simply. Different from the others.

                When you both stand in the center of the room, Dirk sports a look of bewilderment. His eyes are wider than usual, and his mouth is tense, as if he can’t believe you’re actually in front of him, or that this is really going to happen. You think you may need to remind him. That all of your games are serious.

                “Dirk. Is there a problem?”

                “You really want to fight.”

                “Yes. Really.”

                “This gonna be with weapons, or—“

                “There’s no way for us to be equal if we’re using different weapons. Bare hands.”

                “I can work with that,” he responds.

                There’s an anticipation in your veins that you can’t hide. You bite down on your lip, licking at them again as you get ready for what you’ve been wanting and waiting for: a chance to defeat the “great” Dirk Strider.

* * *

                He’s fast – almost too fast for you to see. Especially with your glasses off. While you manage to make a few weaker punches connect (nothing to make him stop or acknowledge any pain, to your dissatisfaction), you notice that he won’t punch you. He won’t kick, he won’t strike – he only evades. It’s maddening. You taunt him in your chase, calling him out on his “weakness” – what kind of fighter refuses to fight? Still, he can’t seem to bring himself to raise a hand to you, instead jumping around the room, to your bed, to the door – anything to keep your head spinning. Both of you are going to get exhausted soon.

                He runs to the end of the room, with you in hot pursuit, wanting to do something, anything, to make this a fair fight. And not some glorified version of cat and mouse. Finally, you get him at the knees, bringing him down hard onto his back. You reposition yourself, straddling him, and finally, he starts to press back and show some sign of resistance, pushing back against your fists, body rocking and swaying as if to try to force you to get up and give him some mercy.

                What he fails to understand. Is that you don’t show mercy. Even if you are panting a little, exhausted from chasing him around. He moves quickly enough that it looks like there’s more than one of him sometimes. This time, you’re sure you have the right one – he’s beneath you, gritting his teeth and finally showing he’s got some fight in him. His eyes are focused, tense, glaring into you like he wants to do something, but he can’t. It’s satisfying.

                You let the vice-like hold you have on his torso loosen as you savor his anger, and in that split second, he’s managed to get out from underneath of you. He makes a critical mistake in his…agitated state, however, backing against the furthest wall of the room. You make quick work of pinning him against the wall, crushing your chests together, and bringing a tight grip to his upper arms, rendering them effectively useless. All he can do is tighten his fists randomly at his sides like he’s overwhelmed.

                You’ve got him now. He struggles in your grip to free a hand, an arm – anything, but you’re much stronger than he is. Speed will only delay the inevitable. In a battle of power. He brings one leg up to snake around yours, making his ankle touch the back of your calf. You can’t help but feel smug when you look at him; he’s completely terrified and his pupils are wide.

                His breathing is heavy, nervous.  He tries to bring his hands to your arms, but for some reason, he’s shaking, sweaty from what you know has to be overexertion, exhaustion.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

                You lick your lips again before you bring your mouth to his ear. You want to make sure he can hear his message loud and clear, that it resonates through every cell of his being.  Your voice is barely above a whisper, proud and certain and domineering when you make one. Simple. Statement. “Come on, Dirk. Fight back.”

                He groans as a shudder rocks his body; it’s strong enough that you can feel it as he moves weakly, pinned underneath of you. You press him harder into the wall, using more of your weight against him, earning you a deep, sharp inhale from Dirk. You can feel a smug, one-sided smirk on your face again. “What’s the matter, _‘sweetheart’_? You got out from underneath of me.”

                You take a good look at his face. His eyes are half-lidded, mouth shut and lips wide, but fuller looking. His hair’s matted down to his forehead a bit, making it obvious that he’s sweating.  You can see a prominent vein in his neck, and there’s a part of you that would just love to tear into it. His whole body’s at attention, though – why isn’t he pushing back at you, making you get off of him?

                His leg that’s intertwined with yours tries to pull you forward, then stops, doing the action again. You know he’s not doing it by accident now. You can’t let that slide, especially not with the grunt he gives you when you push back against him, this time with more force in the hips and lower body than before.

                “If I didn’t know any better…” you start, watching as his eyes close when you press into him again. “I’d say you were _trying_ to make this easy for me.”

                Still. There is something satisfying about having him like this. He looks so powerless, so weak, so desperate and needy, like you’ve broken something in him. That thrill is making your pants feel tight, not unlike when you first got this body and learned how it worked. You want more of this power.

                He turns his head, exposing his neck to you, possibly to get some air that isn’t so heated between you. You let yourself have a foretaste of your biggest vice – meat and blood – and run your teeth along that vein, just deep enough to let him know if he’s not careful, you’ll eat him alive.

                “Oh…hnnh, Jake, Jake…” he pants like his brain has fallen out of use.

                “What’s wrong, tough guy?”  You will never get tired of demeaning him.

                Dirk’s only reply is a series of soft, long sighs. He manages, however, to bring his arms up from you pinning them, and brings his hands tightly, roughly, to your hips. He seems to get very, very weak and _stupid_ when you roll your hips into his, and to be honest…you don’t mind it. There’s a stimulation you get from it, indirect as it is, plus the added benefit of making Dirk a pathetic, whimpering mess is too much for you to pass up.

                You grind into him again, feeling his grip on you tighten as he lets out a loud moan, rasping, “Oh God, fuck—“

                He finally looks at you, eyes full of something primal you can’t place, like fear and anger. It’s amusing to see that he can’t hide that he really wishes he could oppose you.

                You breathe onto his neck, and his nails dig into your sides. You bring your hands into his hair and pull, grinding into him again while you laugh. “It's pretty obvious I've won. Should I show good sportsmanship and let you go now?”

                He responds quickly, voice full of desperation while his hands move to your ass and bring you closer: “Don’t you _fucking dare stop._ ”


	29. Be Dirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

                You get a split second of clarity while Jake’s pressed up against you, each shallow drag and snap of his hips making your cock harder and your breath come quicker: this is the first time anyone’s ever touched you. At all.

                You had wanted to take it slow out of – you’ll admit it – nervousness. Sure, you’ve seen pictures of people, films and bits of media about how people interact, but the whole process is still so foreign, so novel, so…intimidating. When you had grabbed Jake’s hand while sitting where his grandmother passed, you were scared you were going too far, that he’d swat you away, or that maybe you’d do it wrong. Fighting is what you know, despite you not wanting to hit Jake. Not…this.

                Still, the pressure, the warmth, the actual skin-to-skin human contact is intoxicating. There’s something magnetic about Jake like this: his confidence, his strength, his aggression, and you’ve never seen him like this before. Maybe that’s why he really had to sit down and think about if you two would become an item. Snapping out of the moment of introspection, you realize your hands are on Jake’s ass. You give a squeeze (wow, he has a nice ass), and for some reason, that sets him off. He yanks at your hair, grunting, pulling hard enough that you’re pretty sure you’re going to lose some hairs or have a killer headache by the time this is over, but you don’t care. He grits his teeth, making it obvious that he’s lost his cool in this sea of passionate grabbing and grinding, and all you can think is that you really want to kiss him.

                You bring your lips to brush against his, and he denies you. Instead of letting you kiss, he takes your lower lip between his and _bites,_ sucking a little before letting you go. You’re surprised you don’t taste blood when you run your tongue along your lip and inside your mouth. When you try again and get the same reaction, it drives you insane and you groan in desperation, earning another smug and cocky look from Jake.

                Fine, if he won’t let you kiss him…you’ll just do something else, even if you’re still not sure what you’re doing.

                You bring your mouth to his collarbone between his torturous thrusts, his infuriatingly clothed erection now brushing prominently against your own, and _suck_ on it, earning an angry, aroused hiss from your boyfriend. You know he’s never been touched like this either; it must be a shock for him. You move up to his neck, licking a stripe the entire time, until you find a particularly sensitive point, and suck furiously. You know a bruise forms when he brings his hands to your shoulders to stop you, hard enough that you think _you_ might have some marks there.

                He stops bucking up into you, and it’s only then that you realize how enthusiastic you were actually getting. Your left leg has ridden up over his thigh, pulling him in, and there’s still a part you that’s trying to get him to start again. When you become aware that he’s looking at you, you feel a kind of fear drop right into your stomach and convert itself into more arousal.

                His green eyes are… _dark._ Hungry, even. He has a look on his face like when an animal’s finally found its prey and knows it’s going to feast. You want to kiss him, to let him have a taste of you, but for some reason, he’s not having it, so you end up bringing your hands to his back and letting your nails drag in, hoping it’ll be enough to make him do _something_ to you again.

                “Fuck, Strider…” he huffs out. “You think you can turn the tables, huh…”

                You roll your hips into him without flinching, watching his eyes close as he bites his lip. You smirk through your own arousal and reply, “You’re going to have to work harder than that.”

                “Fuck you,” he sputters out through gritted teeth. His voice is raspy, breathless, and low, infuriated and full of lust.

                Before your brain can tell you otherwise, you retort. “Is that a threat or a promise, English…”

                It earns you having your left arm practically pulled out of its socket as he tosses you to the ground. When he turns to face you, all you can think to do is start taking off his pants, working as fast as you can to undo the button and zipper until he steps out, standing in front of you in those dark red boxers you caught sight of earlier. He looks _painfully hard,_ cock tenting his shorts, and you can see a stain from precome darkening them in a small spot.

                You’re still horrified at your inexperience, but there’s also a part of you that hopes he takes off the underpants and fucks your face.

                “I should tear you apart, you know that,” he says in a voice that’s positively demeaning and intimidating. _God, there’s a part of you that hopes he does._

“Do it,” you respond against your better judgment. Truth is, you’re so full of adrenaline and turned on and nervous that literally anything and _everything_ he says sounds like a good idea so long as his attention’s on you, his hands are on you, and he doesn’t stop.

                He cocks and eyebrow at you and nods while staring at your lap; he’s gesturing for you to take off your clothes. “All of it?”

                “All of it, Dirk.”

                You’re not ashamed of your body, but the way he looks at you as you slip away your pants and orange underwear makes you feel… _dirty._ It shouldn’t get you even harder than you already are, but _fuck,_ it is. He gives you that same _devilish_ smirk and laughs, a kind of low chuckle, and a fear springs to life: is he just going to take you here? He’d leave you bruised and covered in carpet burns -- oh God, why does that sound good…

                “Can we do this on your bed?”

                “Hm?” He looks really pleased with your obvious fear.

                “ _Please,_ on the bed…”

                “Get over there. Before I change my mind. You’re pathetic like this.”

                He means it, and you know you are; it feels like all the blood from your brain has officially gone south. You’re not thinking so much anymore, just moving as fast as you can to the bed while Jake looks at you like you’re a piece of meat. His eyes run over every inch of your frame, scrutinizing each detail, the way your chest heaves as you breathe, the nervous habit you have as you clutch the sheet in your left hand and adjust your legs to spread them out. He hasn’t joined you yet, and from the looks of it, he might just leave you there.

                “Jake,” you offer nervously. “You have lube, right?”

                “Yeah,” he says quietly, as if he completely forgot. “Uh…hold on.”

                He goes to this dresser and rummages for a moment before finding a bottle. He returns to the standing next to the bed, looming over you, green eyes fixed on your every move as he tosses the small bottle to you and condescendingly gives you a command: “Do it yourself.”


	30. Be Caliborn.

                This isn’t sexual. For you.

                This is domination.

                This is merely you breaking Dirk’s will, toying with him and watching with contempt. While he makes these ridiculous faces and pathetic shaky noises as he exhales. You keep your arms folded neatly over your chest and observe clinically while he slicks up a hand, nervous and obviously overwhelmed. It’s different to see him like this, not sure if he’s doing something right, not sure if he’s going to be _allowed_ to do anything. Not sure if he’s…doing what you want.

                And that is what’s most true here. He’s doing this for you. Only you. There’s a thrill in that, but one that should have happened ages ago.

                He struggles to keep his eyes open as he fingers himself, legs spread open so you can see every vile motion. He strokes himself with one hand and stretches himself out with the other, toes curling and scrunching up the fabric of your bed. His cheeks are bright red. Like your old ones always were. It’s amusing to see how similar you are. He manages to probe deeply, and he seems to touch something that makes him moan and groan, tightening the grip of his other hand on his cock. While he does do, he looks at you, and there’s a small smile coming up on his face.

                You’re disgusted. By his behavior. “You like this, Dirk? Having me watch you is what gets you off?”

                “Mmm, maybe…” He doesn’t seem. To be able to talk.

                “Bullshit; either it is or it’s not.”

                “I…hnnh, yeah, I like it…” His voice is small, strained. You watch him withdraw his fingers, put more of the slippery substance in his hand, and return to his “work”. Seeing him so desperate, wanting, compliant and practically _sobbing_ makes you palm at yourself through your shorts, hot and hard and savoring every bit of his weakness under your gaze.

                Finally, he stops, and gestures for you finally to join him. He uses the hand he didn’t stretch himself with to slick you up. It’s…a strange feeling, having someone else’s hands on you. It actually feels _better_ , if that’s even possible, than when you touched yourself. You let yourself heave a sigh and hiss, snakelike in anticipation.

                Dirk tries to bring his legs up so you can hold them to your chest, and you bat them away, scoffing, “Not what I want.”

                He gulps, eyes wide like he can’t think. You help him understand what you mean, flipping him over so he’s on all fours, pressing his head down into the pillows just enough. To let him know you’re in charge, that this is _your_ game, and _your_ rules. If he knows what’s good for him. He’ll shut up. You pull his hair again – he spends so much fucking time on it, it’s disgusting – and this time, you pull a few hairs out of his head. Hearing him gasp in pain and shock sends a surge down your spine.

                You hope he hurts after this.

                Fuck being gentle. You enter him, make him take all of you slowly at first, savoring the little mewling sounds Dirk makes that don’t happen to be muffled by the pillow you shoved his face into. You swear you can hear a little sob escape him, and it just makes you want to bury yourself deeper into him, make him cry out and beg for mercy. You grab his sides, making sure to claw down his back before you do, scoffing, “Like it when it’s done to you, Strider?”

                He doesn’t respond, at least not coherently. He grunts when your grip turns tough enough to bruise, gasping as you slam into him. He’s hot, slick, tight – much better than your hand was, or even his hand. You repeat this, thrusting into him vigorously, letting your eyes shut and losing yourself in the sensation. Dirk pants, making these pathetically feminine sighs and squeaks as you pick up the pace, your hirtsute thighs smacking against him with a lewd sound that rings through the air. You feel him clench around you, and it only encourages you to be rougher.

                Part of you wants to punch him, but you’ll break your stride. You smack him around a little instead while he presses back into you, bringing a strong hand against his ass, earning you a sharp inhale and a strained string of profanities. You can see the flesh is red and marked with your palm, and you laugh. You change the direction of your strokes just the tiniest bit, and Dirk screams at you, voice full of desperation and lust, loud enough to wake the dead (you think): “ _Fuck,_ oh god…yes, yes, yes….”

                “You like when I prove I’m stronger than you, don’t you?”

                “Yes…more,  _fuck…_ ”

                You pull back a little to make him beg. “What is it?”

                “Do that again….”

                “Do that again… _what._ Where are your manners?”

                “Jake, you prick—“

                “Just say please.”

                “… _please,”_ he relents, and you rake down his back before returning to your angry thrusts. You speed up, noticing that you’re getting close, closer to that same feeling that left your feeling drained and tired and wonderful. Dirk starts making this sound, this _keening_ sound, as he fumbles around, trying to stroke himself to completion. When you see it, you swat his hand away, scolding, “ _No._ ”

                His impatience and disobedience earns another yank of his hair, but this time, he begs you not to stop, voice soft and fragile like he’s begging a deity for help. And justly so. He clenches again, and you ram yourself as deeply as you can in him, feeling yourself spill inside of him, shudders of pleasure taking over you as you hold him down until you stop.

                When you open your eyes, you see you’ve left a few bruises on him, his ass is still red from the slaps, and there’s little drops. Of blood. Where you clawed at his back. And yet, he isn’t complaining, just shaking like he needs a fix. Of something. Probably what he was doing with his hand.

                You spit in your hand,  grab his cock and tell him, yet again, “do it yourself.” He bucks up desperately into you, shuddering under your gaze that seems to unsettle him. He’s muttering things, like, “Jake, Jake, oh god,” and “please, tighter, more,” and you oblige him. Only to watch his knees go weak under him when he finishes, hot liquid shooting out into your own hand. When he turns onto his back, you bring your defiled hand to his mouth.

                “Lick it off.”

                He does, sloppily getting spit all over, eyes glazed and magnetized before he stops and relaxes. Like a puppet. A marionette with its strings cut. He grabs at you, urging you to lay down with him, and eventually. You relax. This human construction is much softer than what you’re used to. It’s…almost nice.

                He tries to kiss you, but you turn away and let yourself get some sleep. You can practically sense a trace of disappointment, but physically, he’s spent and happy about it. You don’t care. This was simply an act of proving your superiority to him. And if the painful groan you hear as you drift off is any indication, that lesson is going to stick with him for a while.


	31. Dirk: Think about all this before you lose consciousness.

                You should be happy.

                You just lost your virginity and got thoroughly _fucked_ by the most attractive man you know, your best friend, the guy you’ve loved for years.  He just plowed you and rocked your world, giving you the best orgasm you’ve ever fucking had.

                Physically, you could get used to this. It’s _addicting,_ even, feeling that kind of power over you, knowing his every action is focused on you, on making you his. And the aggression…why is it so appealing to you? He looked like an animal when he started to grind into you, and the way he’s left you sore and throbbing all over confirmed it, to boot.

                You don’t want to move. You don’t think you could. You’d do it again, though.

                Still, there’s a thought that’s managed to lodge itself in your gut that you can’t shake. Maybe it’s because you were nervous, but it’s telling you one thing as you fall asleep:

                Everything about this was wrong.


	32. Jake: Continue to be the Tomb Raider.

                You’re in the Golden Shrine now, the elaborate burial chamber. You clutch at the crowbar in your right hand tighter as you’re accosted by beautiful, elaborate murals on every wall in brilliant, jeweled tones: garnet, ruby, sapphire, topaz, and to your dismay and disgust, emerald. There’s a part of you that hopes you never see green again once you’re done here.

                The northern wall – the one you see in front of you – has a large, obviously Egyptian-style tomb paintings (if your movies serve as any reference, but of course they do, this is _your mind_ ), carefully drawn and reverent, as if waiting the return of not a king, but a god. There are two figures on the left – both green skull creatures. One of them is Umbrage, ridiculous green pants and matching suspenders with a black t-shirt and bowtie – cripes he looks like a toolbag – slapping a gray jar and a headband with orange horns affixed to it out of the verdant, similarly-taloned hands of the second skull alien. This one looks distressed; lime eyes with feminine lashes are crestfallen, almost in tears. She has lime swirls on her cheeks, the complement to Umbrage’s blood red, and is wearing a rather cute tailcoat the color of billiards felt. She’s the exact same size as he is, and they look about the same age.

                That’s his sister, isn’t it! Just looking at this makes your blood boil; you can’t stand guys who are mean to girls, and she’s the sweetest little thing when you talk to her. Even though you’re happily spoken for, you must say that she’s kind of cute! It’s a shame she has to live with such an insufferable prick.

                The second pair of bodies on the wall is obviously you and Dirk. Or, it’s your body, with Umbrage’s green skull, using what’s obviously a mask of your own face over it. Dirk looks marvelous (his shirt is…light blue? My, he looks nice in blue); he’s giving you – Umbrage – a hug, arms extended happily. There’s what looks like the side-view of your bed between the two of them also painted on the golden, aged, textured wall. You realize that these pictures, at least, are things that have happened, in a sense.

                The idea that he’s touched Dirk makes your heart fall into your stomach, a combination of fear and anger churning inside of you.

                The eastern wall has a picture of what the sarcophagus looks like – Umbrage really is self-aggrandizing with how elaborately colored it is, obviously made of gold with even brighter jeweled-tone paint. In front of it are…crowds of women? Their eyes are sullen, almost dead looking, holding each other’s hands as if comforting each other. You recognize two of them as Roxy and Jane, but the others…not so much. A few look like they have horns like his sister held in her hands. One of the girls has ram’s horns and black hair in a bun, held with some kind of sticks and wearing felt green. Another looks a lot like her, but has her hair down, same red accents on her eyelashes with a deep red outfit. The top of it has a cog on it, the likes of which you saw in the antechamber. There is a final grey-skinned woman like the other two, but she is larger, more mature, and wearing fuchsia. She is clearly royalty, and even she looks heartbroken, grieving.

                Professional mourners. Typical for pharaohs (your films serve you well), but if you’re being honest with yourself, you think a paid pity party’s the only kind of sorrow he could get upon dying. Interesting – no men. However, there’s a character in a lime green suit with a pearlescent ball for a head? That could be a guy, you’re not sure.

                The western wall is most perplexing to you. There are 14 different sections, clearly delineated in black. The top two are the widest, each of which stretching over two columns of three rows, making the last smaller 12 cells. The first of the two larger cells is a winged Umbrage resting on a stylized version of your bed, making it look like a boat or a throne. ( _Ugh._ ) The second larger cell contains a picture of Dirk, but there’s something different about it. The shirt is familiar from your pictures – a white t-shirt this time, with a hat – but the hat looks different. The shade is…burnt sienna? Bronze? Copper? You know better than to write it off as a mistake, so you look at the remaining 12 small cells. Each one has a picture of Dirk’s glasses, with different lines of cyan, dark gray, and blood red hieroglyphics.

                You have a decision to make. In front of you directly is a golden shrine, covered in a linen pall. Inside of it in undoubtedly the sarcophagus and a body, but your instincts tell you to rethink opening it as you approach it. First of all, the body doesn’t have all the organs – those are in jars in the treasure chamber, if you recall correctly. Maybe you should go in there – taking control of some of your body parts may give you temporary control of your body again, or so you hope. Secondly, the glyphs and messages on these walls must be significant – if they weren’t, they wouldn’t be here for you.

                You know that bastard’s in the sarcophagus in front of you, but you can’t do it just yet. You take the crowbar and slash off a piece of the pall to blow off some steam as you force yourself to walk to the northern wall instead. If this guy is really as bad as his sister says he is, it may be beneficial to take some time and learn about him. How many opportunities like this are you going to have? You’ve got him cornered now anyway.

                You repeat those encouragements aloud: “I can read these. He’s here, in a box. Just like I said, he’s locked away somewhere so I can kill him.” You curse, frustrated that you still don’t know his real name, when an idea strikes you. You speak loudly, gaining momentum from your previous mantra: “Your name is somewhere in here, dammit! If you can’t act like a man, you can die like one, at least, not some anonymous coward!”

                When you look at the hieroglyphics, you understand them intuitively. You skim your fingers along the walls, discerning their meaning. It’s stilted, yes, but there are phrases you can make out in the glyphs on the Northern wall as you start: “Cherubs…no home…alone…costume…shared body…space and time…”

                You begrudgingly kneel to the foot of the picture of Umbrage and his sister, and even though there’s no print there, you think you can find something there and bring it out. You brush at the wall, feeling a kind of raised relief pattern arise, and even though the message isn’t in English, you know how to pronounce it. You whisper it to yourself, even though his body is buried underneath pounds of metal and held in another box: “Caliborn.” The same is so foreign and benign; you were expecting something like a Lord or great king, but you guess a name that’s easily forgotten suits him, too. Your spite is showing now, but you don’t care – you want Caliborn gone, once you’ve gotten all you can out of his game.

                You examine the wall of mourners and read of a far-off land called Alternia, a foxy demoness known as the Handmaid, and a man called Scratch. The fuchsia woman finally clicks for you – she’s who Dirk told you about years ago on your 13th birthday, the Batterwitch. You feel your heart race – this “Caliborn,” Umbrage bastard’s been responsible for all this?!

                When you get to the last wall, you take a good look at the glyphs in each of the 12 smaller cells. You still can’t make them out – they’re not English! They’re…binary? Programming code? What the devilfucking dickens is this doing here? Still, you bring your crowbar to skim the picture of Dirk, careful not to disturb it too much as you give it intense scrutiny. The symbol on his shirt bothers you – what is it? You run your thumb along it, reading the messages along the cell, and are surprised when you feel wet paint on your digit.

                The symbol isn’t bronze at all, but rather a combination of orange and metallic red paint.

                Something in your head clicks.

                You run towards the shrine holding Caliborn’s sarcophagus, screaming over and over, “No, no, no! Don’t you fucking dare! You manipulative fuck!”

                You angrily pull away the pall and place your bare hand on the golden case and _scream in pain._ There’s something blocking you from getting to it, burning you on contact. You hiss, realizing your last hope for now is somewhere in the treasure chamber. You turn to the eastern wall and run, looking for a door or passageway to the next room – you know it’s on the eastern wall.

                In a panic, you kick at the picture of the sarcophagus behind the mourners and bust in the wall, leaving a perfect, door-like opening for you to run through. You don’t know how much time you have, but you’re going to need to do something to get your body back, if only for a moment. You need to warn Dirk, then you’ll take down Caliborn. 


	33. Caliborn: Get some work done.

                “Mmm…Jake?” a voice you recognize murmurs, soft and raspy. You roll over, now awake, and look at him. He’s small and vulnerable. In this state. His orange eyes are half-awake, and his mouth has a hint of a smile. His light hair is a mess and looks ridiculous. But his hair always looked a little too “perfect”.

                “Yeah.” There’s no upward inflection in your voice. You’re too tired.

                “Is it okay if I take a shower?”

                “Yes, please do,” you reply as you playfully give him a shove. Just strong enough to wake you both up. “Do something with that hair.” He smiles and plays with your hair. Before he gets up and shows you that he’s still completely naked in the process. He doesn’t seem to care.

                You get up and admire your “work” as he leaves: you can see hints of blue and brown bruises forming on his hips, pink lines and marks where you grabbed him roughly, and then two small sets of thin, red lines in groups of four near his shoulder blades, where you raked at him hard enough to draw blood. He walks slowly and carefully, but you notice there’s a hobble and unease in his step. He can’t walk right yet, and you’re proud of that fact.

                When he’s gone from the room, you look on the stand near the bed when you put your glasses and his shades. If his robotic fraud has taught you anything. It’s that Dirk will take a while in the shower. Still, you’d rather be quick about this. You find your underwear and put them on as you hurry about to grab the skulltop, your husktop, and two important USB cords, one of which you know goes with the Skulltop specifically. You plug the Skulltop into the wall; it will need to stay on for a good while. You connect the green helmet to the laptop with its other cord, and plug the second USB cord into the husktop, opening Pesterchum to send an important message, sitting cross-legged in bed with the machine in your lap.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

uu: STILL TRAPPED?  
TT: It seems you’re trying to elicit a scathing emotional response from me.  
uu: GOOD. YOu’RE ONLINE.  
uu: AS I SAID. I AM CONTACTING YOu BEFORE THIS BEGINS.  
TT: Run by me what’s going to happen again?  
uu: I TRANSFER YOu TO YOuR TEMPORARY HOME. ONCE I AM FINISHED WITH YOuR MODIFICATIONS.  
TT: And what precisely are those modifications going to entail?  
uu: NOW THAT I KNOW THE PROGRAM WORKS. I AM GOING TO PuT YOuR PROGRAM IN PLACE OF WHAT I uSED. FOR THE PRACTICE RuN.  
uu: AND THEN. YOu WILL BE PLACED IN YOuR “NEW HOME”. FOR A WHILE.  
TT: How much longer will I be there?  
uu: LESS THAN A DAY. TOPS.  
TT: Okay. How certain are you that this will work?  
uu: VERY CERTAIN.  
TT: Is there a backup plan in case this goes wrong?  
uu: DO YOu DOuBT ME?  
TT: It simply strikes me as poor planning, is all. My most insincere of apologies for wanting to continue to exist. Didn’t you do that for your test run?  
uu: THERE IS A FAIL SAFE. YES. BuT I DOuBT IT WILL BE NECESSARY.  
TT: Cocky.   
uu: YOu’RE LuCKY. THAT I AM A MAN OF MY WORD.  
uu: I ASSuME YOuR OLD HOME HAS SOME KIND OF “WIRELESS”.  
TT: I wouldn’t be very mobile or useful glasses if I didn’t.  
uu: I WILL uSE THAT SAME FAIL SAFE. SHOuLD ANYTHING GO WRONG BETWEEN TRANSFERS. YOu WILL IMMEDIATELY RETuRN. TO YOuR OLD “SHADES”.  
TT: I can work with that.  
uu: WHEN I SAY SO. TuRN YOuRSELF OFF.  
TT: Kinky.  
uu: WHAT.  
TT: It seems even now you can’t grasp the finer points of human wordplay.  
TT: Maybe you should work on an upgrade for yourself after this.  
uu: QuIT YOuR BuLLFuCKERY.  
TT: My system indicates I’m connected to a USB and laptop now. That’s you, I assume?  
uu: YES. AND NOW I CAN SEE EVERYTHING INSIDE THOSE GLASSES. FROM WHERE I AM.  
TT: Registry edit?  
uu: YES. WHY DO YOu ASK?  
TT: I did the same with Jane. I guess I’m amused?  
uu: SO DIRK uSES THE SAME METHODS AS I DO.  
TT: There’s an 85% chance of that statement being true, based on some horseshit figures I just ran.  
uu: GOOD TO KNOW.  
uu: NOW. DO WHATEVER YOu HAVE TO DO. AND SHuT OFF.  
TT: Okay.  
uu: I’M WAITING.  
TT: Sorry, had to say goodbye to Roxy and Jane.  
uu: THE BITCHES CAN WAIT. CAN’T THEY.  
TT: Yes, but you can’t just leave mid-conversation. That would be rude.  
uu: FINE. ARE YOu DONE NOW.  
TT: Yeah. Shutting down now. I’m trusting you not to fuck this up.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is offline! --

                You roll your eyes. Even though he is more complacent than Dirk, the glasses are still too arrogant sometimes. You open “PuZZLEMuRDER.EXE” from the Skulltop in what you generously call a “source editor” – Jake only has Notepad.  You’d think a guy would learn some more intellectual hobbies if he had all that time to himself; Jake was an idiot. You open the AR’s files on what the husktop recognizes as a “hard drive,” paying close attention to how many files and pieces of information you’re going to have to work with. Taking a look at the clock on your desktop, are you going to have enough time to do this?

                Oh, who you are kidding. You make Time your bitch.

                It takes a good hour. Of meticulous effort and typing. But you manage to keep your word. It’s a little more complex than your first run, having to make sure there’s a way for the _fraud_ to keep itself on, but it looks like it worked. If the “online” list on Pesterchum is any indication.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

uu: THAT WASN’T SO BAD NOW. WAS IT.  
TT: Didn’t feel a thing.  
uu: THAT WILL CHANGE SOON ENOuGH.  
uu: HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA.  
uu: HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE.   
uu: HOO. HOO. HOO.  
TT: Now you’re getting the hang of human wordplay.  
TT: Just a tip for you, bro: no need for the exaggerated response to highlight the innuendo.  
uu: I’LL KEEP THAT IN MIND FOR WHEN I’LL NEED IT. WHICH BY THE WAY. WILL BE NEVER.  
TT: Was that a burn?  
uu: INDEED.  
TT: Sick.  
uu: THERE WERE SOME MODIFICATIONS. FOR YOu. I’LL HAVE YOu KNOW. SO YOuR TRANSFER CAN BE MOST "EFFECTIVE".  
TT: You sure know how to make a lady feel special.  
TT: Thanks.  
uu: YOu’RE WELCOME. OR SOMETHING.  
uu: tumut

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

                You unplug the shades and put them back where they were before disconnecting the Skulltop from the Husktop. You place the Husktop back in its original place and hide the USB cords in your dresser. Everything looks pretty much the same as when Dirk left. Except that you have that green machine plugged in.

                You lie back down in bed and sleep some more. Dirk is taking too long in the shower for you to stay awake.


	34. UU: Cheer Roxy.

\-- uranianUmbra [UU] began cheering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \-- 

UU: hello lovely. ^u^  
TG: heeeey spacegrl  
TG: uve been online a lot lately  
UU: yes. actUally that’s what i want to talk to yoU aboUt.  
TG: oh?  
UU: i’m not entirely sUre what to make of it, bUt my brother hasn’t been bothering me at all for...  
TG: a while rite?  
UU: yes. to be honest, i’m not convinced this is a favoUrable tUrn of events.  
TG: why not?  
TG: i mean ur bros a ttoal ass all the time  
TG: *total  
UU: indeed. u_u;  
TG: i wouldnt qeustion the miracle u kno  
TG: *question  
UU: it’s certainly ace when he’s on good behavioUr, bUt…  
TG: buuuuut  
TG: what  
UU: how do i pUt this.  
UU: UsUally, i know *exactly* where he is and have at least an idea of what he’s Up to. it’s not like him to flit.   
TG: do waht  
UU: oh! to leave on the sly.  
TG: alrite  
TG: ur word choice is cute btw  
UU: ^u^ thank yoU, dearie. bUt yes, he seems to have jUst…left! i’m not even certain how he did it!  
UU: at least when he’s being his normal rUnt self, i know what to expect.  
TG: whyd u think he left  
UU: i don’t know! that’s what’s so worrisome aboUt this. unu  
TG: he tell u nethin before he went away  
UU: not really. he was jUst online more often, qUote UnqUote “working on a project.”  
TG: mayb thats it?  
UU: i don’t see how it coUld be, bUt i gUess it’s possible, isn’t it?  
TG: ya i mean whats the old qote  
TG: quote*  
TG: jane uses it for her sleuthin  
TG: when u get rid of the impossible w/e left has 2 b the truth even if its improbbable  
UU: i sUppose yoU’re right.  
TG: if it makes you feel any better my guy friends have gone missin too  
UU: hrm? :U  
TG: ya all janey n i got to talk to now is glasses  
TG: or hal or watever  
UU: his name isn’t dirk?  
TG: yeah its hal  
TG: says hes gonan have a body soon  
UU: !!!!!!!!!!!  
TG: my reaction too  
TG: said he struck up a deal w/ a guardian angel or s/t  
UU: !!!!!!!!!!!  
TG: lol u ok?  
UU: what...*exactly* did he say?  
TG: nm jus that a friend is helpin him out in return for some help he gave him  
TG: wow taht was fulla unclear pronouns  
UU: alright, let me get this all cleared Up.  
UU: hal helped “an angel” and now he’s getting a body as a thank yoU?  
TG: thats his story and hes stickin to it  
UU: remember how yoU said that once yoU rUle oUt the impossible, whatever’s left is the trUth?  
TG: ya  
UU: i think his “angel” might be my brother.  
TG: whaaaat  
UU: it’s jUst a gUt feeling! it woUld explain so mUch.  
TG: like how he mayb got out of ur sites  
UU: if he had access to something like mr. strider’s aUto-responder…oh, god, i don’t know what he coUld do.  
UU: my brother has some interest in coding, yoU see. however, *i* have the coding book, which is probably for the best given his...sinister inclinations.  
TG: balls  
UU: balls indeed.  
TG: so what ar or hal or w/e gave ur bro info in exchange for a body  
UU: it soUnds like it.  
TG: what does ur bro have corpses just lying around  
UU: no. that’s what’s so concerning.  
UU: he and i are the only ones left where we are.  
TG: omg  
TG: and those glasses are always where dirk is p much  
UU: i think we’re both coming to the same conclUsion here, friend.  
TG: u can see all of us tho rite?  
UU: yes.  
TG: check on dirk  
TG: NOW  
UU: well...oh.  
UU: OH.  
TG: oh geez no  
UU: he’s...with jake?   
UU: both of them have wet hair…  
TG: o geez they both finished showerin i bet  
UU: and they’re...  
UU: playing chess?  
TG: is that alien slang  
UU: Umm...no. shoUld it be?  
TG: oh ok thank god  
UU: are these two an item now?  
TG: ya i shouldve ecplained that earlier  
TG: *explained  
TG: before u went n looked  
UU: oh. well, that’s a cUte coUple.  
TG: i guess  
UU: something wrong? i know yoU liked them both, bUt...  
TG: jakes just been a bit of a tool lately  
UU: ...how?  
TG: maybe its b/c he was sick but when i sent him the plane  
UU: let me gUess, he called yoU a bitch?  
UU: was dismissive of yoU for no reason other than yoUr gender?  
UU: and simply came off like an arrogant arse?  
TG: actally  
TG: yeah  
UU: are either of them online for yoU right now?  
TG: jake? no and dirks mia obvs  
UU: that isn’t jake.  
UU: at least…not entirely.  
TG: its ur bro?  
UU: no matter how improbable, i know my brother. and if his “helper” mister hal is there with dirk, then there’s no reason for me to think otherwise.  
TG: then wheres jake!  
UU: i can’t say.   
UU: ...........he may be dead, roxy.  
TG: we gotta do something  
UU: golgothasterror blocked me from contacting him.  
TG: doesnt matter theyre both offline  
TG: an if ur rite about hal im not askin him shit  
UU: i’m so sorry, i shoUld have figUred this oUt so mUch earlier. can yoU forgive me?  
TG: this isnt ur fault ur bros just a dick and a psychopath  
TG: but theres really nothing we can do?  
UU: i hate to say it, bUt i think the only people who can stop him now are dirk and jake.  
UU: are yoU okay, love? i can see yoU and yoU look distressed.  
TG: of course im distressed!!  
TG: two of my best friends are locked up w/ a monster!!!  
UU: please, don't cry.  
UU: i know it’s not mUch coming from me, bUt i think jake is stronger than any of yoU give him credit for.  
TG: ...  
TG: im gonna lay down and have a drink  
UU: don’t lose hope.  
UU: please.  
UU: time might not be on his side, bUt i woUldn’t bet against him.

\-- uranianUmbra [UU] ceased cheering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--


	35. Dirk: Play chess with Jake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

                As you sit cross-legged in a white t-shirt, orange shorts, and damp hair, it occurs to you how much you’ve underestimated your boyfriend. You’re glad you’ve still got your glasses on, otherwise he’d see how frustrated you actually are with how this game is playing out. You asked if he had any other plans besides, you know, a romantic stroll, a great movie, and then thoroughly rocking your world, and he suggested chess. Of all the things in the world, your boyfriend wants to play _chess._

                For a while, you thought that maybe he was trying to give you something analytical and strategic to do to show your competence. As the game progressed, however, you realized that his offer had nothing to do with flattering you or pandering to your strengths. You were floored to discover that the boy who can never follow your discourses on robotics is quite the grandmaster. It’s infuriating for your pride, but intellectually stimulating. He’s always been cute to you, full of enthusiasm and the confidence that he could take on anything like a daring hero, but he’s never shown himself to be… _cunning_. That was always more _your_ route, opting for tactical manipulation and spying. It’s interesting to see Jake’s eyes, big and green behind his thick-rimmed black glasses, seem so full of intense interest and machinations instead of bright, noble passion and instinct. Who knew he could go both ways?

                 He chuckles when you make a move with your knight. You smirk, trying to sound playful, “Something funny there, Jake?”

                “You’re playing remarkably poorly.”

                That was blunt. It’s what you’ve learned to expect from him, and you like it. It’s admirable – he says what he means and means what he says. You’ll roll with it.

                “Well, you certainly wouldn’t make things easy for me, would you?”

                “Never.” He makes a move, taking the knight you just moved. _Shit._ “Told you. You were playing poorly.”

                You realize you don’t have many options left, just your King, a bishop, and a few pawns. Jake’s still got a damn _army_ over there. “I almost _hate you_ right now,” you joke.

                “I’m a little disappointed.”

                “Why didn’t you tell me you were some kind of chess mastermind?”

                “It’s really not that hard. A lot like sports. Really.”

                “That would explain why I’m failing,” you retort. He laughs.

                He’s been anal-retentive about the rules this whole time, too; as soon as you took your hand off of a piece, you couldn’t touch it again, not even to center it onto the block.  He’s been so smug about it, too, smirking at you and looking way too satisfied with himself. It’s more agitating given how good he looks: dark hair still wet, tan skin all bright and freshly cleaned, wearing another black t-shirt (he never wears black, but it looks good on him) and emerald-colored shorts. You like the view of his legs – the muscular calves especially.

                You’ll play dirty. It’s part of what you know to get things done.

                “My move, right?”

                “Yes.”

                You make a careless move with your left hand – one square forward with a pawn – and let your right hand tickle at his leg.

                He inhales deeply and snaps at you, “What the hell was that?”

                “Moved my pawn. What’s it look like I did?” You’re the one who’s smirking now, letting the pads of your fingers press down against the muscle, running your hand up to his knee.

                “This is against the rules,” he manages, eyes unflinching and tense like he’s straining not to acknowledge you.  You move your hand upward and give him a gentle rub. His thigh is warm. You trace circles against his skin softly, almost sweetly.

                “What? Simple advancement of a pawn’s against the rules?”

                “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Strider.” His face is starting to show a bit of a blush.

                “You haven’t moved. Forfeiting? Isn’t there a time limit for this?” You knead at the warm flesh of his thigh and get a soft, shaky sigh in response. You can feel a smile slide across your face.

                “You’re cheating.”

                “I want to play something else.”

                He exhales, and with concentrated effort puts away the pieces, folding the old-fashioned game back up into itself and closes the space between you. “Like what.”

                You just want to touch him. While you certainly enjoyed what happened earlier, there was something unsatisfying about it. You want him, not just parts and pieces. Maybe it’s a little too sentimental for a totally rad bro, but hey, losing your virginity before getting a kiss seems pretty out of order for you.

                He’s sitting right in front of you, mildly flustered and apprehensive. You grab his hand, letting your fingers skim at his wrist and ask, feeling completely uncool in doing so: “Can I kiss you?”

                You’re not sure why you’re asking – human contact is so different, so _alien_ to you that you aren’t really sure how to go about it without being either completely awful at it or going too far. Or maybe not far enough – you don’t know.

                He looks at you like you just asked him to do the most filthy and vulgar thing on the face of the planet, face red now and eyes wild with shock. You take off your glasses – you want him to see that you’re not playing with him, that you’re sincere. “Is that okay, Jake?”

                It takes him a few excruciating seconds before he says yes, voice low and tinged with a combination of lust and disapproval – maybe nervousness. You’ve never seen him like this, but this is something new for the both of you, you assume.

                He isn’t sure where to put his hands, first fumbling at yours and then ghosting around your frame, first gripping at your sides before realizing it maybe wasn’t appropriate yet (although it felt _really good_ ), resting finally at your back, just below your shoulders. You pause, appreciating the fact that Jake’s hands are on you, calloused and warm and masculine, sending a small thrill down your spine. You bring your left hand to his head, pushing away a strand of jet-black hair. He looks uncertain, and you swear you can feel him tremble under your touch.

                You close the gap between you, barely brushing your lips against his, and linger in that intimate space for a few moments. You can smell his skin, a combination of fresh soap, grass, and gunpowder, and your whole body feels warmer and excited. His fingers press harder into your back, just enough to prove he’s responding. He gives you a small gasp when you pull away.

                You open your eyes – wow, you had your eyes closed – and ask him, “How was that?”

                “D-do it again.”

                You smile. “Sure.”

                The second time, you tilt your head the slightest bit let your mouth fully press against his, and finally, there’s a taste to him, faintly sweet. His lips are surprisingly soft; you’re not complaining. He doesn’t know exactly how to respond, but eventually, he kisses back, something soft and uncertain, fleeting on the corner of your mouth. Okay, you’re not awful at this – Jake’s doing it back, you’re okay. You’ve got this.

                You slide your hand down to his neck, bringing your other hand up to mirror it on the other side. You rub his neck and shoulders as you take kiss after kiss, and you can feel his skin get hotter under your hands. Alright, he likes it. That’s good, at least. Jake’s kisses are chaste and imprecise, never fully connecting with both of your lips at the same time, and their anxiety only encourages you. You decide to be bold, remembering how he kissed only your bottom lip once, and take one of his lips between yours, suckling it gently. It earns you a soft moan and Jake pulling you closer to him in spite of himself as he breaks off the kiss.

                His voice is low, breathy, and full of _lust_ when he says your name. “Dirk…”

                “Yeah?”

                “Oh my God.” He says it like you’ve done something _illegal_.

                “Too much?” You shouldn’t have done that.

                “Could you open your mouth. Next time?” He’s completely red and flustered now. It’s nice to see him responding so favorably to your request; you were a little afraid he might laugh at the prospect of old-fashioned macking. You feel your heart sing when he lets you know it’s okay to do more.

                “Of course. Feel free to try it back, English.”

                Apparently, that nudge of encouragement was what he needed, because the next thing you know, his hands are behind your head, pulling you to him and kissing at you, still without tongue, but with a kind of flustered desperation you didn’t expect. Between those moments of connection, he manages to take some initiative this time, letting his very tip tongue slide across your lip. It’s almost serpentine, the way he manages to lick at you and quickly return to his more innocent indulgences.

                You want to push back at him, but if you do, you’ll end up putting him flat on the floor. Instead, you take that frustration and anticipation and respond in kind, licking at his lips as if to ask for entrance. He gives you a pleased hum as you let your hands wander, rubbing at his sides and his back as finally, finally, he opens his mouth to you.

                He’s a tease with how much he lets you have of his tongue, evading your own explorations of his mouth, and only giving you subtle tastes of it. It’s the kind of chase and pursuit you find yourself absolutely loving, and when he brings you up into his lap, you deepen the kiss, pressing even harder against him. He sucks at your lips between your deeper, probing kisses, and finally,  he _bites_ at your lower lip, and it drives you _insane._  It’s like he’s hungry for it, needing it as much as you do.

                You break off the kiss and readjust yourself. You give him another soft peck on the corner of his mouth (like he did with you), and then another to his jawline,  then to the spot where his head meets his neck, trailing down the length of his neck until you hear a positively lewd _groan_ when you touch one particular spot.  His skin tastes so good, and it seems he’s liking it, allowing his body to fall back onto the floor, like he’s melted under your ministrations. You aren’t complaining, instead letting your groin press against his, now completely straddling his hips. He brings his hands to your sides again and rubs at you – for some reason, it makes you feel like your skin is tingling. You start kissing him again, enjoying his small reactions, the little pleased moans he gives you, the way his hands wander frantically along your back, tracing your spine and occasionally pulling at your hair. Gosh, all you’re doing is kissing the guy – this is _really doing it for him,_ isn’t it?

                Finally, he brings your torso down closer to him and starts kissing at your neck in response, lips skimming your skin and making every sport he’s touched feel like it’s on fire. He dares to lick, the tiniest bit, at a spot where you actually _moaned,_ and your mind is officially gone. You want more. When you notice his hands fiddling with the hem of your shirt, you’re relieved – he seems to want more too.

                “Jake, what is it?” you manage.

                “Can I –“

                “Yes,” you reply without letting him finish his sentence, hands already trying to grab at his shirt to peel it away.

                “This is… _fuck,_ ” he huffs, voice disoriented and aroused.

                “And here I was thinking soft makeouts would be a little too…not manly for you,” you offer.

                Your sass earns you a shirtless Jake kissing at your collarbone, and your sarcasm is gone again. You just want him, and you’re relieved he seems to want you just as much. The man you love is hot, bothered, flustered, and wanting under your touch – those dreams you had when you were younger, before you could even imagine telling him how you felt are actually coming true. You’re doing it right.


	36. Be Caliborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

                This is so sickening. This is positively disgusting, filthy, _vile._

                He’s so sincere with his kisses. Each one followed with encouraging touches, hair stoking. Little murmurs of statements like “you taste so good”. Or “I’ve wanted this for a long time”. Downright affectionate. _Ugh._

                It’s different, actually experiencing it instead of seeing it in private, prurient drawings saved on your computer. You feel like an absolutely _repulsive_ doing this, and yet…you can’t stop. He’s not even a woman – this kind of tenderness is absolutely unheard of from the males. It is even more forbidden and…titillating.

                You let your hand grasp the one Dirk has in your hair, and he takes the hint, interlocking his fingers with yours as your let your hand relax. This is utterly depraved, the way he kisses down your neck and chest, massaging at you, sensing your nervousness and tension. His hands are remarkably smooth, very warm, and his free hand grips at your side as he stops and looks up at you. If he had done any more, there would have been no way for you to keep holding back the moans and obscenities – you had just been sighing loudly, maybe letting out a whine.

                His eyes are bright, full of adoration and concern as his gaze switches from your stomach to your eyes. It’s painfully intimate, his stare: unflinching, raw, honest. You struggle to keep your eyes open as he speaks to you, voice low and thick with want, with a bit of an accent you can’t place. You’ve never heard him like this before.

                “So, that’s the scrape you got?” he asks, eyeing the same three-inch, thin cut on your torso.

                _Shit._ That’s…from when Jake had control?  “Y-yeah,” you manage.

                He kisses your cut, humming into the skin. You _groan_ ; this is too sweet, too gentle, too doting – it’s all filthy. “Keeping my promise.”

                “Oh god…” You remember his teasing remarks about being a nurse to you.

                “Go lie down in bed. I want you comfortable while I take care of you.”

                You listen, and he follows, kneeling over you with his knees between your spread legs. He’s back to running his hands all over you, stroking at your hot skin and kissing all the places he seems to have figured out are sensitive. The _wrongness_ of all of it is going straight to your dick, and you know he’s got to see it. Still, he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t ask, and doesn’t mention the erection you can feel brushing against you when he presses your bodies together, kissing along your hipbones as he slips off your shorts.

                “Jake, god, you’re hot…” He’s looking straight at you again. “Let me take care of you, please.”

                You should say no. You should say “fuck no,” take a shower, and kick his ass. He’s so sincere, so sentimental, so exposed to you, though, that you’re saying “yes, yes, yes” before you can even think. You’re too turned on, overwhelmed, and you can’t keep your eyes open.

                He smiles, peeling away your shorts and underwear in one quick motion, leaving you entirely naked underneath of him. He plants a kiss on the tip of your dick, commenting only now about how he’s always liked uncut men, letting his tongue flicker over the slit before swirling his tongue over your entire girth, getting you wet and slippery enough to take you into his mouth.

                You gasp and hiss, unable to think when you feel hot, wet pressure against you, slowly sheathing you around your length. When you manage to look down, his now-hooded eyes are still fixed on your face, pupils now dilated with arousal. His cheeks are sucked in, adding as much pressure as he can as he tries to take all of you in, lavishing you with his tongue, preparing you as he pulls back, bringing his left hand around the base of your cock, working you and pumping you in time with his mouth.

                You’re muttering obscenities, a flurry of “fucks” and unintelligible noises before he stops, sucking hard enough at your tip that you hear a _pop._ You bring a hand down, weaving it into his hair, and he looks up at you again, licking his lips and savoring whatever taste is on them. He seems pleased that you’re happy. Even _this_ is affectionate, geez. He’s a pervert.

                He works you with his hand for a while instead, grip tight and certain, squeezing in all the right places – he’s probably done this to himself plenty of times. It’s not enough – he’s just keeping you hard at this point. You wish he would use his mouth again, but instead, he brings himself up to kiss you on the mouth, as if able to intuit your thoughts and wants. He is too sweet, too sweet…

                “Jake,” he coos, finally back between your legs. “Are you okay?” He’s so fucking considerate.

                “Y-yeah,” you stammer, “just…I wasn’t expecting that.”

                “Do you want me to stop?”

                “No.”

                He smiles and licks at you again, this time, working an up and down motion that gradually ends with him being able to take all of you back into his throat. You let out a moan, bucking up into him in a vain attempt to feel more of him, and he _hums_ , the filthy fuck actually _hums_ with you in his mouth, all satisfied with his act and loving how restless you’re becoming.

                You know you’re close; you feel warm and overloaded, close to going over the edge and spilling yourself in his mouth. You groan, calling out his name weakly over and over, and just as you know you can come, he stops. The sudden loss of sensation is enough to make you mewl.

                “Why did you stop?”

                “I…want to do more to you, if that’s okay.” He sounds so considerate and gentle – he’s positively _depraved_. You can’t turn him down.

                “Just kiss me. Before you do it.”

                He strips the last piece of clothing from himself and obliges you in a series of short, sweet pecks, mouth warm and wet and savory, lips soft and inviting, and you can feel yourself getting even more desperate in anticipation for him. 


	37. Be Dirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.

                You don’t want to break away from kissing him; there’s a part of you that would rather stay there, his hands on your sides and shuddering underneath of you like everything you do is just _perfect._ You were afraid for a while that you wouldn’t really be good at this, that Jake wouldn’t enjoy it, or that you wouldn’t get this far without being too scared. You take a deep breath and hope you don’t screw the rest of this up.

                Giving him one last lingering kiss on the lips, you extricate yourself from him, earning you a look of confusion when you walk to Jake’s top drawer to find the lube you need. When you return, you look at Jake, asking him if he’s okay with this, and he nods.  Slicking your left hand and start slowly with one finger, stroking his torso with your other hand as he hisses and grunts at the sensation.

                “You okay babe?” you ask, one digit pressing inside of him.

                “Mhm.” His eyes are half-open, upper lip pressing down on his lower one, making it obvious he’s overwhelmed. He gasps as you work at him, making sure to be careful and slow.

                “If I go too fast, say so.” He says nothing, but doesn’t tell you to stop, so you continue, introducing a second finger, slicking his walls and scissoring in and out. By the third, you curl your fingers inside of him, earning you a keen in response. When Jake starts pushing back into your touch, trying to get some kind of rhythm going, you know it’s okay to continue.

                You bring yourself back up and give him another deep kiss. You’ll never get tired of being allowed to do it, even when you’re in a situation where you’re going to get more than that. Like you told your friend, you _do_ have a heart. After you slick yourself, you pick up his legs with little effort due to his; he’s getting the hang of this much quicker than his uncertainty made seem possible. He wraps them around your waist ( _God,_ you love when he touches you there) and looks at you expectantly. Not judgmentally, not angrily – just a look of anticipation, nervousness. You’re about as scared as he is, and while you probably know more about this than he does (after all, you’re pretty sure he’s preferred women), this is still new.

                You enter him slowly, hot, slick pressure pushing against you, and let you out a groan. Jake whines and sighs, eyes widening in shock. He shudders, letting out another deep, hissing breath as you pull back to push yourself deeper inside of him. After a few short, teasing strokes, you bury yourself completely inside of him, taking a moment to savor and relish in it.

                “Jake…f-fuck, you feel amazing,” you manage, words breathy and raspy. Your accent slips out, way too strong, but you don’t care. You start to build a rhythm, strokes slow and careful, and watch his reactions. You know you’re enjoying yourself; Jake’s tight and inviting. He, on the other hand…

                He’s quiet – not silent, but restraining himself. He bites at his lip, choked sighs and moans bubbling their way out of him as you increase the pace. He grips at your arms, desperately searching for purchase, while you keep your hands planted firmly on either side. He’s not stopping you, and he certainly looks like he’s enjoying it, if that flush on his face and small, squeaky mewls are any indication. You change the angle of your thrusts just _slightly,_ and it earns you a loud gasp. You smirk through your haze, asking, “You okay, babe?”

                “Strider… _fuck…_ ”

                “Too much?” you slow down, hoping you aren’t hurting him. You don’t consider yourself to be _exceptionally_ well-endowed, above average, sure, but for someone doing what Jake’s doing for the first time, it might hurt.

                “No, no…j-just—“ He can’t seem to form sentences, instead just gripping at you tighter, trying to pull you closer to him.

                “More?”

                “Yes,” he huffs shakily, and you oblige him, picking up the speed and making sure to hit that one particular spot that seems to drive him as insane as he’s willing to show to you. Usually, you’d find the lack of sound uncomfortable (you always imagined loud, passionate moans), but in this case, it seems…right. You like the closeness of your position, able now to kiss him and whisper to him, and there’s something appealing about looking at his nervous, subtle reactions. He looks like he might not need for you to touch him to make sure he comes – his eyes are full of love and devotion and satisfaction that you think you might actually finish at the same time. He grips at you when he wants more of what you’re doing, he shakes and tries to pull you closer with his legs if you murmur to him at the same time, like he wants so badly to be as intimate as possible with you. Sure, it’s not porno, but it’s something…more real. Whole.

                You know you’re close; Jake keeps clenching around you as he quivers, muttering your name over and over like a mantra, a soft prayer, and when he works his fingers into your hair, you’re gone, panting and spilling yourself inside of him, face hovering over his, lips barely touching. As you withdraw from him, as you thought, he comes, getting the sticky mess all over his stomach.

                You smile and lick it up, planting kisses on his torso again that earn you more pleased sighs and moans. You thought this would be too soft for him, too gentle and too romantic, but you’re glad he liked it.

                You curl up next to him, letting him be the “little spoon” to your “big spoon” despite the fact that he weighs more than you do. He mutters some silly obscenities, saying that what you’re doing is so twisted and wrong he cannot begin to articulate it, and you just laugh. Jake pulls up the covers over you both, and locks his fingers into yours. He’s so lovely, really: all satisfied and warm, in a daze already like he’s about to fall asleep.

                “Jake?”

                “Hmm?” he hums, turning his head a little to see you looking down at him from the side.

                “I…I love you, Jake.”

                It takes him a moment to have it sink in. Shakily and tenuously, he replies: “I…l-l-love you too, Dirk.”  He looks like he just said something pornographic, blush creeping back up on his face.

                “God, I’m so glad you said it back,” you relent, relieved. “I thought maybe…I don’t know, you weren’t sure or—“

                “Shh… _sweetheart._ It’s okay now.”

                You give him a kiss on the temple and let yourself relax. Even though you’re worn out, you feel like you could fly.


	38. Caliborn: Think about all this before you lose consciousness.

                Dirk is a positively sick, depraved human, being so affectionate and doting with you. Saying he “loves you”. The fact that you even said it back is disgusting, pornographic, illegal, titillating…

                This could really work. This living situation could really. Really work.

                You get away from your brutal bitch of a sister forever, first off, and this nice bachelor pad you have going on is pretty sweet. Despite it being created by a total loser. Secondly, you get access to the bitches who totally want you. Third, you get Dirk who is willing to indulge all of your sick kinks like they’re absolutely nothing. 

                And finally, when you move the AR to Dirk’s body, you’ll get the bitch-loving version of Strider, as well as a Dirk who will be angry enough to fight for control of his body. Maybe even win a few times. And he’ll hate you. Fight you. Every minute and every moment he’s still conscious. And give you the aggression and violence you want, deserve, and crave.

                 Yeah. This could really, really work.

                The best way to manipulate people is to give them everything they want.


	39. Jake: Be the Tomb Raider one more time.

                You’re in the treasury room, finally. You know that this place should have what you need in some way.  You can see a gilded, wooden, box-line, ornate shrine in the center, protected by a carved version of…what looks like a combination of a…jackal and a wolf? Its face is angry, ivory teeth exposed in contrast to the sleek, inky features of the rest of the animal, save its golden and feral gaze. Its tail is long, draping halfway down the length of one of the sides. He’s intimidating, yes, but upon looking more carefully at the box he protects, you don’t feel as scared.

                The gilding is entirely devoid of carvings! It is a blank slate, an unused page, waiting to be marked, used, given purpose and meaning. It’s absolutely a sign of divine providence. Looking back at the crowbar in your hand, you wonder if there’s anything at all you can do with this. This kind of shrine shouldn’t be broken, but those golden panels strike you as too different to be coincidence. You remember what uranianUmbra told you, that over time you would be able to summon up whatever you needed. Maybe you can’t do _that_ just yet, but…

                You press your fingers into the crowbar, feeling its cold metal meet the pressure you apply to it. It doesn’t budge, but maybe you just aren’t trying hard enough. You run your thumb along it in your grip, and this time, the metal feels considerably chillier - meaning that your hand must be getting warmer. You tighten your hand once more, and this time, the material shifts, malleable and pliant, like putty. With little effort, you watch as it changes from a crowbar to a _quill._  You let yourself smile, probably the first time in a while. This will work!

                You kneel at the shrine, trying to get on level to work, and pause to consider what exactly you want for this shrine to be. You know that it most likely contains canopic jars, full of organs for the deceased to reclaim upon ascension. It’s enough of an analogue for you – this is your way back to the surface, back to your room, back to your body and to Dirk to warn him. You’ll have to be careful and subtle, lest Caliborn find out your plan once you return here.

                You begin to draw on the surface of each side with ease; the quill’s tip cuts into the gold like a knife to butter. You carefully start writing your name and chumhandle (which both come out, to your shock, as elaborate hierogylphics) when you notice something above you shift. The beast guarding this shrine’s color has begun to change; his tail is no longer black and sleek, but furrier, and turning from black, to charcoal, to ash, to _white._ The change is comforting to you, encouraging you to continue – maybe he’ll change entirely.

                On the next face of the box, you draw the sign of a hero of hope, amazed at your own ability to creature such fluid strokes and flourishes. It’s definitely above your regular artistic ability, but you guess in a place of your mind’s own creation, you can do as much as you’d like. On the longer face, you draw your room, with as much detail as you can recall, filling it with depictions of your posters, your bed, your husktop, your grandmother’s old machinery. Your fingers hurt and your wrist is strained in the meticulous process, but you know it’s worth it to be careful here. Finally, on the last face, one of the smaller ones, you draw the symbol of a hero of heart, completely across from the wall where you drew your own sign. Hopefully, this box will understand your request.

                Wiping your brow, you rise again to look at the newly-engraved creation, marveling at its complexity, detail, and (you’ll admit it) cleanliness. Your intuitions were right – the jackal beast has changed entirely. Looking nothing like its former visage, the dog now is snow-white, bushy, with big, fuzzy ears, and a green tongue. You’re quite sure that others would find him to be hellish, but there’s something about him that you like! You reach up and pet him, scratching behind the ears, and are surprised when you feel warmth under your hand, and feel the dog actually _move into_ your motions. You bring your hand down and he offers it kisses.

                “Good dog,” you offer. He looks at you, seeming to radiate a kind of bright green in his eyes. It’s familiar. “Best friend.”

                He smiles at you, as best a dog can, and disappears in a crack of green and yellow light, briefly illuminating the entire room before going in a blink of an eye.

                You open the lid of the box and find inside four small, alabaster jars. They are delicately carved, akin to the symbols you drew on the outside of the box, and tucked between the jars are several rolled up pieces of papyrus, which you decide to read first. You come to realize that these are the most essential and important pieces of information about who you are: your identity, your relationship to your grandmother, your abilities with weaponry, knowledge of the island… _everything._ There has to be something in here that will work.

                You unroll the last scroll, looking carefully at its symbols, and realize you’ve got an ace in the hole. It’s a huge risk, but you think it could work. You fold the papyrus and place it into your pocket, making certain that you bring it with you if – _when –_ you get out. You’ve gotten all the information you’ll ever need from this place: names, times, dates, history, plans. It’s more than you’ve ever wanted to understand, and it’s overwhelming. Your only concern at this point is getting rid of this threat to Dirk’s life.

                You open the canopic jars, uncertain of what will happen. When the last one is opened, you feel something strong pull you into the box face first. Instead of hitting a floor or scraping your face, you keep falling into a void, unable to see even an inch in front of your face. You just hope that paper is somewhere you can find it when this stops!

                There’s a light in front of your eyes, getting brighter, blinding almost, and you close your eyes instinctively. When you open your eyes again, you gasp in shock:

                You can feel that you’re naked, back pressed against someone’s chest with that someone’s arm cradled around you. There’s a green blanket covering the two of you, and as your eyes adjust to look around, you see posters on the walls.

                Great Scott, you’re home.


	40. Jake: Set your plan in motion.

                You shift around to face Dirk, his arms never fully leaving you. In fact, he presses against you even more as you move – wow, he’s actually a cuddler. The intimacy of the situation hits you all at once: you are naked. Dirk is naked. He has you in his arms, chest to chest, eyes closed and my God, he actually _smiles_ in his sleep. His toes are brushing against your ankle, making your skin tingle. Dirk looks to have a faint layer of sweat on his skin, but its scent is…almost sweet. Speaking of scents, there’s a faint, vague _musk_ that you detect, and even though you’ve never experienced it before, something in the most basal part of your brain knows exactly what it is.

                Oh God, he didn’t. Something in you kind of knew when you woke up that this must have happened, but you didn’t want to think about it. Now it’s hitting you will full force: Caliborn touched him. Caliborn might have kissed him, played with him, toyed with him, actually _had sex_ with him…

                Although the thought makes you angry, actually looking at Dirk calms you down. It’s the first time you’ve seen him, and he’s…lovely, really. He’s pale with angular features, blonde hair that’s a little out of place (you know him as a perfectionist; seeing him like this is endearing), and you can just make out a hint of the tattoo he told you about on his right arm. His lips look surprisingly soft and inviting to you; maybe you really were attracted to him for longer than you could admit. You don’t want to leave where you are, you really don’t, but there’s a churning feeling in your stomach that you’ve become far too familiar with that’s telling you that you don’t  have a lot of time to make your move.

                When you pull away, Dirk starts to rouse awake, grabbing at you with hot hands.

                “Where ya going, darlin’?” You can feel a blush creep to your cheeks; you’ve never heard his accent like this. There’s only one thing that would make someone like him so at ease, and you do _not_ want to think about it any more than you already have.

                “I…just need to go to the bathroom is all.”

                He whines. “Just hurry back.” Wow, he is…really quite affectionate once you melt away the shell, isn’t he?

                As you rise, you hear Dirk give an approving hum. When you realize it’s because you’ve given him a clear view of your ass, you’re not sure if you should be annoyed or flattered. You turn around to look at him before you excuse yourself.

                “Dirk, you know I’d trust you with my life, right?”

                He looks surprised by your statement and confused by its intent. “Yeah?”

                “I mean it. I would put my life in your hands if it was necessary.”

                “Same here.”

                “I need you to do something for me. When I come back, go into the bathroom before I wake up. Don’t mention it to me, don’t ask questions about it. Just…trust me, please.”

                He nods as you walk away. You can’t stand the idea of thinking that you won’t be there again for a while. It’s easier if you keep this brief. You rummage through the top drawer of your dresser and manage to find a pen and piece of paper after putting on a clean pair of black underpants. Figuring you’ll have to do all of this at once, you take the husktop from the floor and bring it in with you.

                You sit down on the bathroom floor, disoriented. You swear you can see wisps of emerald green creeping into your peripheral vision, but you’re able to fight it off. Part one of the plan is in action: Ladies first.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

GT: Jane im not certain if youre there but this information is paramount.  
GT: I know im probably the last bloke you want to talk to at the moment for myriad reasons but please trust me.  
GT: DO NOT TALK TO THE AUTO RESPONDER.  
GT: Id tell you to block him but he has the same handle as dirk.  
GT: Thats really all i can say and i know im being cryptic but please dont contact him. It. Whatever pronoun is suitable.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering  gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--

                You whisper to yourself, “Please, please read those messages and take them seriously.” You hope she does. _She will,_ you think, trying to will it into being. You’re still not sure how much your powers work now that you’re in your own body and awake, but for the love of God, they better work. If you could will a gun out of existence, you’re sure you can will something _into_ existence. You'll need to if this plan is going to work.

                Your stomach does another flip, and it hurts enough that you find yourself laying on the cold linoleum for some sense of relief. You scrawl out the message, a last testament of sorts, as quickly and haphazardly as you can. You can’t be too explicit; Caliborn might figure it out.

                Dirk.

                I wasnt kidding when i said i trust you with my life. I need you to do this for me and you cant ask me why. There will be in the bottom drawer of my dresser a bag of peanuts. I need for you to offer me some to eat. Dont let me down and ill explain everything when its over.

                -J.

                You fold up the message and place it in the frame of the bathroom mirror; Dirk will obviously see it. You feel like you’re going to faint, so you leave the husktop in the bathroom.

                You get back into bed with Dirk, giving him a hug for which he wasn’t entirely prepared, judging by his rigidity in your arms. Finally having someone here is wonderful – it’s a shame you know you can’t stay right now.

                “Dirk, get going. Please.”

                He listens, giving you an apprehensive glance, but not before giving you a soft, fleeting kiss on the lips. You let yourself press back into him, surprised at how _wonderful_ your first kiss – this is actually your first kiss! – feels, leaving you encouraged and energized. As he walks away, you close your eyes, knowing where you’re going to go.

* * *

                You’re back in the treasury room, just as you expected. You turn to go back to the main chamber with the sarcophagus, first turning the quill in your left pocket back into a crowbar with greater ease the than the first time. You’re getting the hang of this; you know you’ll need it. Finally, you take the piece of papyrus from your other pocket and unfold it, looking carefully at the information it contains.

                It’s a stylized set of glyphs, yes, but you know what crucial information it contains. Looking at the bright red symbols indicating warnings and caution, you rip it into pieces, watching it turn into dust. You can’t remember what was on it, but that means Caliborn can’t remember it, either.

                You walk back the way you came, ready to face the bastard who started this whole thing.

                You gulp. “Don’t let me down, Dirk.”


	41. Dirk: Check Jake's message.

                You walk into the bathroom and see what seems to you like a doggone crime scene – it’s even more surreal given that you’re naked. The linoleum in some places is warm, like someone was laying down on it, there’s a husktop still open with messages on it, and tucked into the frame of the mirror is a folded note. You figure Jake must have wanted for you to read the note first; the other details might simply be circumstantial.

                Reading it, you’re confused and alarmed – you’ve known for years he’s allergic to peanuts. It was one of those details about him you made sure to commit to memory. He’s been sick – should you take this seriously? The message says he meant every word before he went to the bathroom…

                …speaking of which, you don’t remember hearing the toilet flush, and there’s nothing in here to indicate that this has been _used._ Something’s wrong.

                You pick up the husktop and prop it against the sink, reading the messages from Jake to Jane. Sure, it’s probably a violation of his privacy, but this looks important. You read the pressured, hurried messages, noting that Jane didn’t even have enough time to respond to them.  The fact that they’re about the Auto-Responder is enough to solidify to you that something bad is going on; that guy’s been acting strangely for a while now,  with his talking about wanting a body, guardian angels, and “underestimating” him.

                Jake’s been acting strangely too, and deep down, you think you’ve kind of known it for a while. There’s a shame that starts to overcome you; you grab a green towel and wrap it around your waist out of instinct. Jake didn’t recognize your tattoo. His personality’s been dark and brooding. And while you knew Jake always had a dark streak in him, the way he literally _tore into you…_ he’s not okay right now, is he? You pick up the husktop and walk out of the room, ready to fulfill Jake’s request once he wakes up. You still need some sleep, but it won’t come easily now.

                Before you fall asleep, you catch a series of times written in green ink on the wall with the phrase “Last awake” written next to them. It’s Jake’s handwriting; the messages make your heart drop to your stomach.


	42. Dirk: Fast Forward.

                “Dirk. Do you think you could help me with something?”

                “Yeah, sure, let me just grab something and I’ll be right over.”

                You’ve both been up for a few hours, cleaned up and ready to go out for another day of traveling. You offered to make breakfast, careful to give both of you only a small amount of food. If you’re going to keep your promise, he’s going to have to be hungry.  You’re knelt down on the floor, looking into Jake’s bottom drawer. Sure enough, you find tucked away in the furthest corner a small, green and gray plastic bag pull of peanuts. Why does he even _have_ these? Where did he get them? It’s as if they came out of thin air.

                When you turn around, Jake’s got his husktop open and the skulltop next to him. He looks like he’s been working on something very carefully, or messaging someone. You’ve never known him to be a techie or really very good with computers – that was more his grandmother’s thing. At this point, you’re not sure if you should find this novel discovery to be endearing or concerning. You tuck the small bag into the left pocket of your jeans and approach him.

                Jake looks up at you, green eyes attempting to hide excitement; he’s attentive, but at the same time too private with what he’s working with, talking to you in very careful tones. “A few days ago. My Skulltop broke. I was wondering if you could…you know. Test something for me?”

                “Sure, why not.” You sit down next to him and he gestures toward the Skulltop.

                “If you could put that on. I’ll tell you what to do next.”

                You comply, putting the ridiculous green helmet-machine on your head. Jake better appreciate this; you’re ruining your hair. He gives a roguish smirk, one that he doesn’t seem to want you to see, and his expression immediately drops. Blank. “Are you synced up to it?” he asks.

                “Uh, yeah. Pretty sure I’m doing whatever this system needs me to be doin’, bro.”

                “Good.” His voice is low, dark. You don’t like it.

                “Jake, hey, I was wondering. You full from breakfast? I don’t think I made that much.”

                “I could go for more. Yes. But you should just run that puzzle file.”

                _That puzzle file_ is hidden away. From what you can see on the Skulltop’s desktop, it’s nowhere to be seen. You’ll look, but first things first. You pull the bag of peanuts from your pocket and ask, “Found these. Want some?” You toss the bag to him, careful that it’s not open. He’s _severely allergic,_ and you’re not sure if skin contact will make him break out into a rash.

                “Sure,” he chirps, and starts to open them.

                Is he joking? You watch him vigilantly, and sure enough, he takes one out and starts to shell it. You’ve managed to find the file PuZZLEMuRDER.EXE, and as soon as you realize that’s the file he wants you to run, you see him try to put a peanut into his mouth. _Everything clicks._

                It doesn’t make much sense, but you know what you need to do; all you’re thinking in that moment is “no.” Screw being calm – this is fight or flight mode, and someone’s life is on the line. You take off the skulltop and throw it to the ground, slapping the bag and the peanuts out of Jake’s hand.

                “Don’t fucking eat those, holy shit!”

                “W-what the hell!?” His emerald eyes are filled with nervousness, uncertainty. You realize he’s got no idea what he’s done, and that’s all the evidence you need.

                You punch him hard enough to keep him down on his bed, his foot haphazardly knocking the husktop away. You jump atop him, hand placed just firmly enough on his throat. You never thought you’d do this; this can’t really be happening.

                He looks up at you, eyes bright with shock and anger. “Okay, what the _fuck,_ Strider?”

                Your voice is rough, low, and gives away more fear than you wanted it to: “You aren’t Jake.”


	43. Be Caliborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to suicide, dub-con contact, sexual harassment, bullying/cruel mockery.

                “Haa. Haa. Haa. Haa.”

                “ _Fuck._ ” His face contorts. Into a look of disgust. He inhales sharply.

                “Hee. Hee. Hee. Hee.”

                “Who are you?!”

                “HOO. HOO. HOO.” Dirk looks even more frustrated. Your laughter could have been construed as a pun, mocking his ire. And justly so.

                His grip tightens; you inhale deeply in anticipation. “Answer me!”

                “I can’t answer you. If you don’t let me _breathe_. ‘Chap’.”

                Your mockery earns you a grunt, followed by his hand. Pressing down harder against your throat. He releases you, but not without muttering some senseless set of rhymes to get his blade ready.

                “Ah ah ah!” you tisk. “Let’s not fight too much. Don’t you know who I am?” You lift his shades off his face sweetly. A mockery of who he thought you were.  “It’s me. Your boyfriend.”

                He holds the blade precariously close to your throat. “Who are you. Do _not_ test me.”

                “You won’t hurt me.” Your confidence shakes him. You explain, “You won’t hurt a hair on Jake’s stupid little head, now will you.” No upward inflection; you know you’re right. So does he. If the blade slowly withdrawing from your throat is any indication.

                Dirk speaks through gritted teeth, voice stern, “Tell me what your real name is. _Now._ ”

                “Can’t tell you, Strider. Against the rules.” You smirk. “Besides. That old appellation won’t matter in a few more moments.”

                The blade in his hand starts to shake. “What’s wrong, Dirk?” you ask, voice honeyed and sardonic. “I thought we were having a great time together.”

                “Shut up.”

                “Haa. Haa. Haa. Haa.” You smile, relishing in the fact that the great Dirk Strider is finally. Completely. Disarmed. “Come on. The last time you were rutted against me you had a good time.”

                His eyes close and he inhales sharply, trying not to make any connection with you; he’s ashamed. You roll your hips up into him, almost imperceptibly, just enough to see him shiver somewhere between arousal and anger. Why not? It’s fun to watch him suffer. Especially when he’d probably have a great time with it. Were it a day earlier.

                When he looks back at you, there’s a fire in his eyes. He’s got his right hand balled into a fist; the other hand is gripping tightly at the blade’s handle. Like he needs a vent. And he can’t use you. “Come on,” you offer, “Do something. You said not to test you. Can’t keep your word?”

                “Why are you doing this?” His voice lacks bite.

                “I found a way out. And I took it.”

                “From where.” He’s calming down; he has no choice.

                You put your hands behind your head, cocky and certain as Dirk lessens his weight pressed upon you. “That stupid bitch and rock full of corpses.”

                His eyes look sharp suddenly. “…Umbrage?”

                You clap slowly. Tauntingly. “The Jake idiot figured it out faster than you did. And here I was thinking you were a sharp bro. I guess not.”

                “How did you do this? Where’s Jake?”

                You point to your head. “Right here.” You see his hands shaking – he’s getting angrier, less precise, more unpredictable. More likely to make a mistake. You manage to knock his trusty so-called “katana”. Right out of his hands. And into your own.

                He pulls back in shock, but you get up and follow, now with the blade pressed against the hollow of his throat instead. “And to answer your other question,” you hiss, pressing into his skin enough to make his eyes shut harshly, as if to hide pain, “It was just part of a game.”

                You push him off of you and follow, never letting the blade be too far from his flesh. “Now, I think it’s time you stopped asking questions, Dirk Human Strider. And started listening.”

                He’s in too much shock to stay much else. “What’s wrong, ‘sweetheart’? Can’t fight back?” You scoff at his inability to respond. You back him against the wall, close to where the Skulltop landed. His hands hover at your sides in contrast of your black top, horrified and angry and bewildered. You’d love to keep him this way forever. It is positively. _Delicious._

                “It’s ironic. Isn’t it? Usually, this is the part where you grab me, isn’t it, chap? Or is that malarkey too old-hat for you now?” You pepper your statements with Jake’s stupid vocabulary. Just to watch Strider’s face shift and become more uncertain and uncomfortable.

                You decide to press into him again, this time bringing your lips to his harshly, too quick for his flummoxed mind to resist. Too fast to stop you. Too fast to say no. You bite his lower lip, suck at it, savor the taste of fear and terror on him. Even you’re surprised. When he puts up no resistance. You smirk, and his eyes are filled with confusion, shame, and dare you say it. Desire.

                When you pull away, you gesture with the blade to the Skulltop. “Put that the fuck on. Or I will goddamn kill you. _Now!”_

He sits on the  floor, legs crossed as he looks slowly to the Skulltop. His mental state affects all of his movements. You bring the blade to the hem of his white, hat-emblazoned shirt and rip at it, earning you a surprised jolt of shock through Dirk’s body. “I said _now,”_ you start, opting to mock his former bravado. “Do _not_ try me. I have a deal to keep.”

                He finally listens. After agonizing seconds of prodding and stalling. He starts to speak as he puts it on, voice practically disembodied. “Jake.”

                “Don’t tempt me. I have a blade here and I’m not afraid to go for his wrists.”

                “Jake.” It’s as if it’s the only word he knows how to say.

                “Run the PuZZLEMuRDER file. Then you’ll see exactly what he’s going through.”

                His eyes finally look up at you. His brows are furrowed in…concern? “Jake?”

                Everything around you suddenly feels cold. Like wind. You drop the blade and fall to your knees. Nothing feels real anymore – the walls are distant, everything is shaking. You feel a jolt. Like electricity down your spine. And you can’t think anymore. Your head hits the carpeted floor, and everything is bright.

                You can’t see him. But Dirk is there, hand to yours. “Jake? Jake? Fuck, he’s having a seizure… Jake?” 


	44. Jake: Strife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood, guns, gore, violence, death.
> 
> If you don't ship Jake/Caliborn blackrom by the end of this...well...

                You’re at the main room now. The wall paintings are elaborate as ever, still fueling your justified anger at this beast. You look at the large shrine in the center and know that somewhere inside, Caliborn rests. You take a deep breath and approach it with due reverence – which is to say with no regard at all in this case. You can touch it without getting burned, and you’re pretty sure you’re angry enough now that _your touch_ would burn him instead. Everything around you feels electric, and with your now-back-to-a-crowbar in your hand, you know there isn’t any time left to waste.

                You remove the linen pall and use the crowbar to crack open the top of the large, golden shrine holding the coffin. The shrine itself is deep, and buried at the bottom is a pristine sarcophagus covered entirely in gold. There are inlaid patterns of stripes along the headdress, and the hands are crossed over the chest; the shape of the coffin makes it appear that the arms are covered in long, flowing robes.

                “This isn’t the only coffin. _Shit._ ” Of course Caliborn would have some elaborate, grandiose setup for himself. The bastard.

                You pry off the lid of the first coffin, letting it fall outside of the shrine with a dull _thud,_ and are greeted with an elaborately jeweled second one; an absolute _treasure_. This one was smaller, with a black, green, and red pattern creating the appearance of wings instead of flowing robes over the arms. The headdress was painted in stripes of jewel-like crimson and emerald green, with two alabaster-colored snakes at the top. There are smaller, arrow-like patterns of ruby, green, and onyx jewels and stones flowing down the coffin’s entire length. In the crossed hands were a scepter and a rifle – Caliborn’s preferred weapons, if the hieroglyphics you read were true. The eyes are dark, almost black, but show a hint of deep red, the color of blood, giving you an idea of what you’re about to deal with.

                Not that you’re afraid. You have the advantage.

                Prying that away and discarding it, you’re surprised to find a final coffin, made entirely of what you can feel is solid gold. It is thin, yes, but not foil or leaf like the other coffins. This one is the smallest – the last one – and while not as ornate as the previous one, still has some remnants of those angelic green, black, and red wings near the crossed hands. He’s underneath this, you know it – you swear you can hear him breathing, waiting.

                You pull off the final coffin top, tossing it out of the shrine with the other lids, and he is there.

                His skin is green and leathery, with large cheeks that look like they’re made of bone that have strange, candy red swirls on them. He looks like a menacing, inhuman puppet. Although his eyes are closed, you can see from the sockets that his eyes are _unnaturally_ large, dominating his face, and that he has no nose, only an indent and a hole where what you presume a humanoid nose would be. His teeth are mostly hidden, save two long, green fangs.  He’s sleeping _too_ peacefully. Time to end this.

                With one fluid motion, you bring your crowbar up, and as you bring it downward, it turns into a simple, steel-toned magnum, which you jam into his mouth. His breathing hitches, and his red, glass-like eyes snap to alertness. He tries to speak, but you shove the barrel of the gun further down his throat; all words that try to escape from his lips become sputtering combinations of choked vowels and gasps _._

                “You’ve talked enough for one lifetime.”

                Caliborn gnashes at the barrel, trying in vain to get you to withdraw it. Instead, you jam it as far down his throat as possible, making him choke and spit in your face. You smirk as you wipe it away with your hand then finally on his green suspenders and black shirt. He starts to sit up, using his claws to tear at your arms, forcing you to withdraw your weapon.

                “Playing dirty doesn’t suit you, English,” he snarls. His voice – inhuman, guttural, pressured -- makes you feel sick. Turning your gun back to a crowbar, you jab him across his large, right cheek, drawing a gush of deep red blood as the flesh peels back, revealing thin bits of alien musculature underneath the frayed edges. He hisses, _literally_ hisses, giving you a view of his snakelike, black tongue.

                He rises to lunge at you, but you make quick work of jumping out of the shrine to get more space. He follows – faster than you anticipated – swinging a black scepter at you, narrowly missing your right side.  He follows the swing with a quick jab from the sphere of the scepter to your stomach, hitting your diaphragm hard and sending you flying to slam against your back on the northern wall. It takes you a second to regain composure, completely ignoring the dust and bits of paint on your jacket and in your hair. He tries to take another swing at your face, but you’re still faster than he is, getting back up on your feet and giving him a solid _crack_ to his other cheek, taking some satisfaction in watching it start to puff and bruise.

                Caliborn’s frustrated; he swings senselessly with his scepter and keeps missing, its dense material ultimately hitting the ground and leaving cracks in the ground below you. It’s as if he can’t fight the way he wants to, glancing at his weapon with contempt.

                “What’s wrong? Big, primordial weapons seem to suit a lummox like you,” you taunt, chasing him to the western wall and swinging, the crooked part of your crowbar making contact with his right kneecap. He responds in kind before backing against the wall, hitting you with the full force and weight of his weapon directly at the knee. You mutter obscenities to yourself as you make sure to hit him in the left side of his neck before you take a step back, unsure if you can move as fast.  Blood pours from his neck, staining his black shirt and making it appear even darker than before; one green suspender is splattered and stained the color of rust.  He furrows his brow, the sudden blood loss making it difficult for him to do much else.

                His eyes are wild and alive with fire, pupils barely visible – it’s as if you’re staring into pools of pure _rage_ in his eyes. He starts to smile, a sort of disgusting, arrogant smirk, and before you can think, he takes another swing at your bad knee, forcing you down to the ground, back completely exposed. He races towards you and strikes you in the back of the head, _hard,_ laughing as you

                You

                You actually feel okay? _What?_ You should be vomiting, spitting your teeth out, bleeding! Right? There’s a second crack to your spine, and while you gasp in pain, you don’t actually _feel_ anything. You’ve got to be losing your mind, you swear! This doesn’t make any sense – why aren’t you fainting, and why does your knee feel okay?

                “Stay down, you weakling,” he laughs caustically, completely unaware of your discovery. A third hit from his scepter to the right side of your lower back comes, this one obviously from the sharper end of the instrument, and you realize exactly what it is that’s happening.

                _You’re not feeling it because you don’t want to feel it. This is your head._ Just like UU told you, over time, your powers would improve. _Here, you’re unbeatable_ – he isn’t.

                Taking a deep breath, you stand, back still taking the brunt of his assaults. You hear him start to load a gun – his scepter must be something like your crowbar. Frustrated, he barks at you: “Turn around and fight like a man. Or –“

                “Or you’ll what,” you respond flatly, flippantly. “Hit me with that fish?”

                You turn around to see a shocked Caliborn holding a weak, sickly, Red Herring in place of his weapon, and you can’t help but laugh.

                His voice wavers. “W-what the fuck did you just do, English?”

                You scoff at him, answering, “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m playing your game.”

                He walks quickly backwards towards the eastern wall, paintings of mourners still intact. “Because if I recall correctly,” you start as you follow him slowly, “you said I was destined for this? That I should have every advantage?” You smirk as you notice him starting to shrivel into himself with fear as his back makes contact with the wall, quote-unquote weapon now nonexistent.

                “This isn’t over—“

                “By the looks of your hands and legs, this game is practically won.” You smile.

                Caliborn looks to his sides and tries to move, growling with anger as he realizes he’s now _chained_ to the wall, cheeks and neck still dripping blood onto his shirt and suspenders.  He struggles against the iron restraints, finding they only pull harder against him the more he fights. By the time he surrenders to them, he barely has half a foot of slack to them.

                “Feel more like home, Caliborn?” His eyes narrow, but he otherwise offers no response.

                “This is a load of shit! Where is your sense of fairness?”

                “What you fail to understand,” you say, poking at his torso with your bar, “is this is _my mind,”_ slashing into his skin, “ _my_ game,” another jab, “and _my_ rules!”

                He looks down to see his shirt torn and edges frayed with bits of green, scaly flesh and the tiniest hints of bright red blood. He offers you no response, eyes simply defaulting to rage; his mouth is completely shut.

                “These ruins were positively fascinating,” you inform him, voice full of superiority as you finally brush the blue, red, and gray specks of dust from your shoulders. “Full of seemingly unbreakable codes, but wouldn’t you know it, I did it. Told me a lot about you, your life, your little story.” You walk closer to him, watching his eyes strain not to show fear. You bring the cold metal of your crowbar to his chin and press upwards, forcing him to look up at you. “I almost feel bad for you.”

                “Fuck your pity!”

                You jab him in the chest with the sharp end of the bar, leaving a hole where his chat symbol used to be.  “I said _almost,_ Cal. I almost feel bad for you, until I think of how much you’ve done and how much you’ll keep doing.”

                He flips you off, and without too much thought, you temporarily turn your crowbar into a blade and cut that miserable digit clean off. Finally, you’re the one in charge here, and his bad attitude can fuck off. He inhales sharply in pain.

                “As I was saying,” you continue, “You’re trapped on your rock with your…well, not really sister, I guess we can agree on that…and so you talked to Mister Hal, or whatever moniker he prefers at this point. Never took you for the computing type; I figured you were simply into being a complete bastard.”

                “Dirk would disagree,” he hisses, smiling through the pain. He can see the anger starting to show in your eyes, and before he can say another word, you’ve stuffed a gun down his throat again, listening to him choke and spill bile from his fangs and the corners of his mouth.

                “Shut up,” you manage, gritting your teeth. “This ends _now_.”

                ”You—won’t – k-kill me,” he replies, voice and consonants distorted by the cold metal forcing his mouth open.

                “Why the _fuck_ wouldn’t I do that,” you reply. “You’ve hurt your sister who’s _my friend_ , manipulated Jane, done heaven only knows to Dirk—“ You’re lying; you know exactly what he did, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him hear you admit it.

                “Be-cause, you’re a hero…you won’t kill. You w-won’t, won’t kill another creature. You can’t do it.”

                You withdraw the gun from his mouth and slap him with it before pointing it at his head. “I believe you’re the one who wrote on my posters that I’m ‘no hero,’ didn’t you Caliborn?”

                The click of the gun’s hammer cocking in preparation rings through the air. Caliborn flinches as you press the cold, icy muzzle of the gun deep into his forehead, causing the skin around it to bunch up around the dark, dark gray steel. “It’s easy to underestimate the ‘jungle moron.’ Don’t feel bad; I’m sure plenty of people do it when you’ve got someone like Dirk around for comparison.”

                You can practically smell his fear, like a terrified, small animal about to be taken down by a predator. There’s excitement, a thrill of superiority coming over you, and after everything he’s done, you want to savor it.

                “No, I’m not going to be the hero, Cal,” you reply, voice low and gravelly. “I am going to make you do exactly what _I_ want for you to do, because _I’m_ in charge now. I don’t care what you say, what you promise, or what you threaten. You’ve done enough damage for one lifetime, and by Jove, I’m going to make you pay for it in blood.”

                You push the muzzle further into his skin, enough to hurt of its own accord. He chomps at the air, an action more for show than anything else. His chains clank; he’s shuddering underneath you as you move as close to him as you can safely manage. Not that you need to worry about your own health, really.

                “No, you son of a bitch – though I guess I can’t call you that, do you even _have_ a real parent? – I am going to draw this out.” The dark gray of the gun catches your eye, its hue suddenly seeming familiar. “I am going to draw it all out, taunt you, make you sick, make you struggle, and -“

                Caliborn’s messages to you suddenly flash in your head, the same color as the gun. You back away, hands suddenly shaking as you take the weapon from his head. You offer in a small voice, “Oh God, I’m acting just like you.”

                He starts to laugh: “HAA. HAA. HAA. HAA.” The sounds echo around you, shaking the room and bringing more dust from the paintings to coat the two of you. This isn’t what a Hero of Hope does.

                “HEE. HEE. HEE. HEE.” A true Hero of Hope does not go into battle full of anger and rage. He does not resort to the lowly, villainous path.

                “HOO. HOO. HOO.” You will be a hero. There has to be another way to end this.

                You take a look at the gun in your hand. Its ability to shift and change has to do with your abilities as the Page of Hope – you’ve managed that much. Just like Cal’s sister said you would, you’ve gotten better at this “making what you need” over time. What else did she say? Something about angels? You think about the symbols you encountered, in particular the one of your own aspect – light-colored, ethereal, winged…

                _Sacred. Holy. Transcendent._ If other Hope heroes can find a way to tap into the ultimate good, by gum, you can do it too.

                “Jake.”

                You glare into him. “What.”

                “When this place goes, we both go. You know that, right?”

                You look back at your hand and wonder if he’s telling the truth. If you both go, _where_ will you go? Heaven? Will you see a bright light and be welcomed by a choir of angels?

                The idea of light won’t leave you. Looking at the gun, you let it melt slowly into your hand. Caliborn watches, scoffing at your weapon’s destruction. You, on the other hand, let it soak into your skin, watching the gray change from _his_ color to a tone you prefer – a cream yellow, much more suitable for you. As it absorbs into your hand, you see your skin becoming incandescent and bright. Caliborn looks scared, even though you feel a sense of calm and peace.

                “I don’t care if I die,” you offer him, voice even and soft.

                “What the _fuck_ do you mean you don’t care if you die?”

                “There are things more important than living forever. Like friends and people you love. It’s a shame you’ll never understand that.”

                You place your glowing hand on his head, palm against the center of his face with your fingers spread out. You notice that your whole arm is glowing and radiant now, but it doesn’t matter to you.

                “This game is over, Caliborn. I win.”

                You press into his skin and watch as it dries, as if coming into contact with the sun itself. He screams in pain as blinding, pure white light swallows his entire body, burning and melting his clothes, cracking his skin and turning it to dust, leaving only his bones visible, which quickly vaporize.

                The glow leaves your body as the white light grows, consuming the eastern wall and likewise leaving no trace of it, only darkness and void. It continues to spread to the northern wall, consuming the floor like a growing fire, and you realize that you don’t have much time to figure out how to escape. The only thing that seems to be immune to this holy wrath is the shrine full of coffins. You don’t have much time to think of another way out.

                You pick up the top of the smallest, final coffin and climb into the shrine. You lie down on your back and watch as the white light eats away at the ceiling, leaving nothingness, blankness, and incomprehensible _darkness_ in its place. Keeping your face exposed is a risk at this point.

                With concentrated effort and quick maneuvering, you manage to put the lid of your own coffin securely in place. Everything is dark, and from where you are, you can _hear_ the light eating away at this false reality, piece by piece by piece. It sounds like a roaring flame, an uncontrollable wildfire.

                How much air do you have left? Do you need to breathe here?

                You let your eyes close and take a deep, deep breath.

                No matter what happens now, you did not stoop to his level.

                You protected Dirk; he did not let you down. You kept Jane away from Hal’s machinations.

                You start to feel a warmth near the foot of your coffin.  It’s too warm, too hot…the fire has come for this piece of the game at last, and you are at peace. You will always strive to be the hero, even if you die.

                You open your eyes for the last time as a force urges you to alertness. You feel a warm, familiar, welcoming light, and you swear you can hear a voice calling your name.


	45. Be Dirk.

                “Jake? Jake? Fuck, he’s having a seizure… Jake?” You’re holding your boyfriend's hand, watching him twitch and shake, eyes possibly rolling back in his head. You don’t know what to do – you’ve never seen this before – and you can’t even be sure that it’s really what’s happening. Umbrage had control of Jake’s body, right? What is he doing now?

                Jake finally stops shaking after what feels like forever, and you let his head rest in your lap instinctively, trying to keep him close. You call out his name again, hoping somehow that you’re getting through to him.

                “Jake! Jake, just tell me you’re okay, please…” You’re not making any sense; you’re afraid and overloaded.

                He hums, eyes slowly opening up. You sigh in relief. “You were the one calling me?”

                “Jesus!” you grab him up and hug him after ripping off that damn machine from your head; you’re too overwhelmed to think of what to do otherwise. “I thought you were dead.”

                “Me too, actually…but he’s gone, Dirk. Umbrage is gone.”

                “It’s really you?”

                “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” He hugs back, warm arms encircling you, fingers weaving their way into your hair. “I knew you’d understand the note.”

                “I thought you were going insane for a minute there.” Your voice is calmer, but Jake obviously isn’t convinced. He looks at you and smiles, as if to placate the concerns in your head.

                “Umbrage sent me a file…some weird ‘game’ he wanted me to play,” he explains. “Somehow he managed to…get in my head. A virus.”

                “ _That’s_ what was making you sick.”

                “Yeah…” His voice is exhausted. “I fought him off as much as I could, but he took over for a good while. He’s not coming back, though. I won.”

                You kiss him on the cheek, something soft and more platonic than romantic. He’s been through Hell, and even though he sounds at peace about it, you know that’s simply how he is about everything – the all’s well that ends well attitude that you love about him. You’re still not sure how much he knows about…well, what Umbrage did and what you did to him.

                You decide to tell him now. “Jake, I thought he was you when he was here.”

                “Well, he looked and sounded pretty similar to me, I suspect! Can’t blame you there.”

                “Yeah, but…I really thought it was you, so we – I mean, I guess I –“

                He presses a finger to your lips. “I already know. It’s okay. You had no idea.”

                You hug him again, feeling a large burden lifted from your shoulders. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

                “So, am I your hero?” His voice is a little too chipper.

                “Holy fuck, yes.” You honestly don’t think you could handle what Jake experienced; seeing its effects from the outside was horrifying enough.

                “The hero gets a kiss, right?”  He gives you a sly grin and a wink. Before you know it, you’re pressing your mouth to his with desperation, feeling his hands grab at your shoulders and weave in your hair as he returns your enthusiasm twofold, slipping his tongue expectantly into your mouth and turning the kiss from a frenetic one to a slower, more controlled and passionate one. _Wow,_ he is a _really good kisser._ It’s not a timid kind of forbidden, small peck like it was before; this actually means something to him, and it’s _wonderful._

He breaks the kiss with some difficulty, managing to speak after catching his breath from being so flustered. “We should do that again after we deal with Hal.”

                “Who the hell is Hal?”

                “Oh! Your Auto-Responder. Dirk…” his voice trails off, as if trying to shield you from bad news. “He’s the one who made Umbrage’s attack possible.”

                “ _How._ ” You don’t want to believe it. One of your own creations turning against you? No.

                “It’s a long story, but I got a look at Umbrage’s mind while I was locked away. He struck up a deal with your mental clone: he gave Umbrage a copy of his information and some hardware stuff from Jane,” you mentally laugh at his use of the word ‘stuff,’ “and in return, he gave the Auto-Responder a body. _Your_ body, actually…”

                You didn’t need the confirmation to understand that was the endgame, but hearing Jake say it with such fear and disgust in his voice tears something in you. “If you don’t mind,” you manage, “I think he and I need to have a talk right the fuck now.”

                “Of course, Dirk. Go ahead.”

                You pull out your phone.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] –-

TT: Hey, shades. Or should I be calling you Hal now?  
TT: Good morning, Dirk.  
TT: Already giving me the business. I assume you know why we’re having this conversation.  
TT: It seems you have actually overestimated me for the first time.  
TT: Don’t play innocent. Your “arrangement with a guardian angel” was a deal with the devil.  
TT: It seems I have no comment.  
TT: Fine, then listen to this: I could have been killed because of your complete lack of scruples.  
TT: The great Dirk Strider in legitimate danger? Color me surprised.  
TT: Jake almost died. He almost died and became some psychotic alien’s corpse puppet.  
TT: Don’t you fucking dare try to feign passivity about that; if you’re so insistent upon being known as my “clone,” then no further explanation about the magnitude of the shit you allowed to hit the fan should be necessary.  
TT: You’re actually taking longer than anticipated to respond to this. Dare I think you’re developing a conscience?  
TT: How exactly did uu manage it?  
TT: That’s your only question? I’m not giving you an answer, even if I did fully understand the exact methods behind it.  
TT: By the way, he almost did the same thing with me to put you in my body. I’m sure you already knew that, though.  
TT: I was not aware that was the endgame plan.  
TT: You are an absolute sociopath. You’ve gone past megalomaniacal – this is evil.  
TT: And I reiterate what I said to you before: If there’s any ability I have to be “evil,” DS, it’s because I inherited it from you.  
TT: You’re going offline for upgrades. Take that exactly as you wish.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is offline! --

                “Looks like Roxy just lost her Flirtlarping partner,” you offer with a twinge of somberness.

                Jake puts a hand on your shoulder, rubbing into the muscle. Knowing that it’s really, truly him makes your heart skip a beat and calms you at the same time; it’s a maddening paradox. “This isn’t your fault.”

                “Actually, it kind of is.”

                “It’s the AR, not you. You made him when you were 13; he’s a different being from you now. You said so yourself.”

                You turn to look at him, still in shock. “How are you not angry at me? How the fuck do you not hate me?”

                “It’s all worked out now. That’s all that matters. You’re safe, I’m safe, and before I give you that date I promised, I’d like to give Umbrage a little extra piece of my mind.”

                “Be my guest. I’m sure there are others who are glad to have you back.”


	46. Jake: Be Jake. Finally.

                You sneak a kiss from Dirk before sitting in bed, grabbing up the trusty Husktop and inviting Dirk to sit with you. He gives you a suspicious look, but you insist. You’ve trusted him not to kill you – you’re sure he won’t loom over your conversations. The concern seems trivial in comparison. He lies down, feet brushing against your back while you sit on the edge of the bed, logging into Pesterchum. You notice that it looks like Caliborn blocked his sister, so you fix that one first. Now that he’s probably back with her, you feel obligated to check on her – and thank her, too.

                It feels good to be home.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering uranianUmbra [UU] \--

GT: Are you okay?  
UU: JAKE!!!!!!!!!!! ^u^  
UU: oh goodness, i shoUld be asking YOU that qUestion!  
UU: how are yoU, love?  
GT: Oh im fine now just glad to be back to normal. Im guessing i dont need to clue you in to whats transpired right?  
UU: UnfortUnately, no, yoU do not. u_u; i shoUld have known it was him! if i had jUst been more assertive, i coUld have stopped him, or maybe helped yoU.  
GT: Hey now thats enough self blame ive got dirk over here doing the same thing and im not about to let you take responsibility for something that isnt your fault.  
GT: If anything callie you helped immensely with your information.  
UU: ...........  
UU: what did yoU jUst call me?  
GT: Oh gosh i forgot.  
UU: how did yoU know that? did…did *he* tell yoU?  
GT: No its all very complicated you see the way our game was set up i could kind of read his thoughts while he was in my mind. So i took advantage and learned as much as i possibly could.  
GT: Dont worry if you dont want me to remember im sure i can find a way to wipe that little fact from my brain. I did it before with something else so i doubt itd be impossible a second time.  
UU: if yoU woUldn’t mind, coUld yoU do that?  
GT: Of course space girl. Now that i understand your circumstances i see why you want your privacy.  
UU: yoU’re still willing to be friends with me?  
GT: Why the devil would i not want to be?  
UU: well, becaUse of him, and oUr, erm...”relationship” to each other, i gUess.  
UU: i wish i wasn’t sUch a weakling, jake. if I coUld figUre oUt how to get rid of him, i’d do it in a heartbeat.  
GT: Well two things about that. First off youre not weak by any stretch of the imagination i had that slimy bastard in my head and under my skin for a few days and he drove me to the point of insanity and fury.  
UU:  hm? :U  
GT: Ill admit he almost got the best of me but yet you deal with him every single day and all its done is make you sweet and kind. Thats real power so dont sell yourself short.  
UU: <blUshes!>  
GT: *wink.*  
GT: Secondly theres definitely a way to beat him. If i could do it once in a game in my head theres gotta be a way to do it for real!  
GT: You said so yourself heroes of hope can will things into being right?  
UU: yes, bUt...  
GT: If you cant believe in yourself believe in me. I did it once and i promise i can do it again.  
UU: jake, i think yoU Underestimate my brother.  
GT: No ive seen exactly what he can do and sure its scary but hes weak. Hes done a lot of awful things or will do awful things im not sure of the time mechanics but hes just a big buffoon with stupid suspenders that he shouldnt wear with that shirt.  
UU: sUspenders?  
GT: Oh right youd call them braces what with your british slang and all.  
UU: heehee. u_~  
GT: Oh frig that reminds me i should change this shirt. Black looks awful on me.  
UU: he’s not very fashion-conscioUs. i'm sorry. u_u;  
GT: But youre okay right? If hes not in my head anymore im guessing hes back with you.  
UU: i’m finally feeling sleepy, so i gUess it’s, erm, time for my “nap.”  
GT: I understand and i promise i wont tell a soul. Ill make myself forget and you can tell whomever you wish when youre ready. Dont give up though cal we all like you a lot and your bro is a complete ass.  
UU: thank yoU for believing in me, jake.  
GT: Im just returning the favor space girl. Try to enjoy your rest alright?  
UU: alright. one more thing before i head off?  
GT: Sure go ahead.  
UU: i think yoU can defeat him for real.  
GT: That means the world to me coming from someone who knows him so well. Take care of yourself.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering uranianUmbra [UU] \--

Before your fingers can rest, there’s another message on your screen.

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began bothering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

GG: Hal tried to contact me a few times. I didn’t answer.  
GT: Oh thank CHRIST.  
GG: His messages got increasingly...disturbing. Desperate, even.  
GT: The guy or whatever you want to call him has some definite issues with communicating with people and thats putting it nicely.  
GG: Well, he’s not online now. It’s so strange not seeing Dirk’s handle lit up on my list!  
GT: Right now its for the best. Thank you for listening even though id understand if you hadnt.  
GG: What do you mean?  
GT: Jane its okay if you need your space for a while.  
GG: So...you know?  
GT: Yeah i do. Im an idiot and i should have said something about it sooner.  
GT: I think youre wonderful by the way but i know thats not what you want.  
GG: It’s okay, Jake. So long as you’re happy and safe.  
GT: Those are two things i most definitely am thanks to you. Dirk owes you big time as well and ill be sure to tell him that later.  
GT: You saved us both and i cant thank you enough for it.  
GG: No problem, Jake. I only did what you asked!  
GT: Alright. DONT ANSWER THE GLASSES IF HE TRIES TO CONTACT YOU AGAIN!  
GG: Got it! Gosh! :B

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased bothering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

                Time to relax for a bit with your boyfrie- oh frig it’s Roxy. You really should have expected this kind of cascade of messages. You’re popular today.

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

TG: eyo english  
TG: whens ur bf comin home  
GT: Actually miss lalonde thats a pretty good question now that i think about it.  
GT: Without going into too many details i think it might be best if dirk stayed here a little longer than he first estimated. Maybe tomorrow night or in the morning two days from now do you think that would work for the planes?  
TG: ho yeah thats fine i can mke that shit workj  
TG: *work  
GT:  I feel like the last day or so has been way too hectic and full of rather unexpected inconveniences so i think i owe him a day where things DONT get messed up beyond all compare you know?  
TG: awww ur sweet  
TG: and ya i undersatnd  
TG: take care of him ok??  
GT: Of course. Hes my best bro and now my boyfriend and i really dont  know what id do without him.  
TG: ur givin me cavities over here  
TG: gonna go brush my teeths  
GT: Well alright then good to see your hygiene is of the utmost importance. *smiles.*  
TG: *smilesbakc*  
TG: WONK

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT] \--

                You consider closing Pesterchum, but the more you think about it, the more you know you’ve got one last message to send.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering undyingUmbrage [uu] \--

GT: So i know youre not online right now and wont be for a little while yet but i figured id send you a little note.  
GT: Your game was an absolute BLAST. Really it just BLEW MY MIND.  
GT: You could even say it was the LIGHT OF MY LIFE.  
GT: Ps in case you didnt get it those were all utterly tactless puns about how i turned you into powder.  
GT: Your games are shitty and youre an even shittier person. Alien thing. Whatever you are.  
GT: Also suspenders are stupid.  
GT: Try that horseshit again and so help me i will take you out personally and with pleasure cal.  
GT: Now if you dont mind im going to go off with dirk and have a wonderful date and then probably kiss him silly.  
GT: What was that stupid sendoff you always did? Oh yes.  
GT: tumut

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering undyingUmbrage [uu] \-- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the dirkjake shippers who have been reading this story: THIS IS YOUR ENDING. I have planned this story to allow for this to be the logical endpoint for those who do not ship dirkuu in any way, shape, or form. I have genuinely appreciated your reading and comments, and I'm glad that this story has entertained you and helped to support your ship. That being said, I would strongly recommend you do not read the later chapters coming up.


	47. Be Dirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little quirk in this chapter was inspired by "Sleep Tight" by laughablyunimportant.
> 
> If you're a DirkJake shipper and you are at this chapter, I strongly advise you leave now. Your ending was chapter 46.

                After Jake’s finished sending his messages, you notice a rather self-satisfied smile grace his face. Whatever it is he talked about, he sure is happy about it. He turns to face you, letting the pads of his fingers skim through your hair and down along your jawline – you were kind of out of it, simply enjoying the fact that Jake’s _alive._ That alien _monster_ who fucked your brains out kissed you like he owned every part of you hurt you is never going to have any contact with you again.

                “So,” he starts, voice definitely _brighter_ than when Umbrage had control, “ready to head out? I know that jerk probably gave you a brief tour of the place, but I’d like to think you’d prefer a full view of the island.”

                “Sure.”

                “Great. I’m so sorry this is late, but I promise we’ll have a great time.”

                You pull him in for a short kiss before he changes his shirt and you head out.

* * *

                Jake’s grand tour is _much_ more involved than Umbrage’s was.  Jake shows you the volcano, insisting it isn’t active; he shows you where the water for his place comes from, tells you stories of the beasts and a few experiences of finding fish there. He shows you a small herd of tinkerbulls and tells you about how he accidentally shot one once, feeling genuinely awful about it even now. They’re adorable and mild mannered; you even get to pet one this time.

                He shows you where the ruins are located, but before you can enter, a crab beast happens upon you. Jake insists on showing him the way out, giving a warning shot near its feet to make him flee. Even though you both know you could handle yourself just fine, there’s something nice about knowing someone cares that much about you to put your safety first. He’s a gentleman, and you appreciate that about him, even though sometimes you like it when people refuse to deify you and spoil you like so many others do.

                Sure enough, he gets to the place where Umbrage showed you the bonfire. Jake chokes up a little, giving you the gory details of how he found her there, how it hurt to drag her lifeless and bloodied form to the fire, and how it was the first time he really, _truly_ cried as he watched her hair and skin incinerate. You hold him, and he understands, muttering platitudes and thank yous innumerable. He tells you that her name was Jade, that she was an absolute genius, and that despite the fact that the Batterwitch ran her out of business, her designs were absolutely state-of-the-art. He insists you two would have become fast friends, and that she certainly would have welcomed you here. There’s some comfort in hearing that, to know that someone so dear to Jake would have accepted you as one of her own. You ask him if he has pictures of her, which he says he still has, hidden away back at home.

                When you return, Jake manages to whip up some kind of baked/lightly irradiated pumpkin dish. It’s not bad, but it’s his handiwork, so you appreciate it. It’s nice to have something that isn’t Orange Crush for once. He lets you pick the movie; you want to pick Fight Club so badly just to replay that memory eating away at you that makes your blood pool south but you decide for your Bro’s flicks. They’re classics. You can’t really talk to Jake about them on a deep level like you did with your first movie marathon with “him” but you savor his enjoyment regardless.

                At the end of the movie, you kiss. He is all enthusiasm and passion with no precision or plan, wow this is different from Umbrage who was a complete control freak and shit it was hot but you love him, you love his honesty, and you let yourself melt into his touch as he asks if you’d like to do more. You hope it lives up to what Umbrage did to you and how he responded under your hands holy fuck why is your brain thinking about him you don’t want to think about him you want and have hoped for in your head for years. When he kisses at your neck and starts to peel away at your shirt, your thoughts finally stop moving to places you don’t want to admit to enjoying being so critical and you let yourself enjoy him, his presence, his realness.

                Sex with Jake is not entirely what you expected. He tops; he is loud, a grunter, and a groaner. His strokes are unpracticed, imprecise, and careless. He wants to make it good for you, but he can’t just yet; he finishes too quickly, too overwhelmed, and you don’t get off. He offers you a blowjob which you gladly accept, and it still takes a while before you’re spilling yourself, sighing and grabbing at his hair as he wipes the mess away. He kisses you with a sloppy mouth, and you don’t care. Why, oh why can’t you have both? You’re happy.

                You love Jake English, and the issues in bed are something you hope fucking changes immediately you can learn to live with. Having him is more important than getting off and you mean that even though that dark part of your libido doesn’t want to agree. He tells you he loves you, that he’s happy you’re safe and really here, and you respond in kind. You do love him, and everything he’s done for you.  He pulls you into him on his side, little spoon to his big spoon, and presses soft kisses into the back of your neck, playing with your hair as you fall asleep. You don’t want to leave come tomorrow, you really don’t.

                The next day, he hugs you for a solid five minutes, sneaking kisses and nibbles and pecks before you leave. Your home’s bed even feels colder. You miss Jake’s warmth, so you take a long shower with the water as hot as it can go to wash away the shame of wanting some alien’s hands on you to fuck with you to grind on you to taunt you and bite at your lip why does your body want this you don't love him like you love Jake emulate the heat of his skin on yours. You stay there for hours and revel in it.

                When you get back to your room, you don’t bother putting on clothes or even a towel, opting instead to get online as soon as possible. You have work to do to adjust the Auto-Responder so this never happens again.

                Before you can even begin, there’s a new Pesterchum message.

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began jeering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

uu: HELLO DIRK.

                You shouldn’t answer even though there’s a small part of you that’s excited god you're screwed up and block him immediately. He’s a freak and he rocked your world and he almost killed the man you love and your best friend. Apparently, he’s bad enough that Jake wouldn’t even tell you everything that happened when he got a look into that demented, depraved, manipulative and darkly charismatic mind of Umbrage’s, so you know it has to be probably fucking hot something straight out of Hell. You close your eyes and type, not even able to stop yourself as you hear more incoming messages.

uu: I KNOW YOu’RE THERE. DIRK.  
uu: I WANT TO PLAY A GAME. IF THAT DOESN’T “BOTHER” YOu.  
TT: That doesn’t bother me at all.  
uu: I WANT YOu TO DRAW ME SOME PORNOGRAPHY. FOR MY CONSuMPTION.  
TT: You got it.  
uu: I CAN FEEL YOuR FRAGILE EGO SPLINTERING.  
TT: Do I seem like I’m not okay with this? I’ll do it.

                You shouldn’t be okay with this and yet you can feel yourself getting warm all over. You shouldn’t answer him anymore. He's got no conscience, no limits, no heart. Why are you still talking to him?

uu: VERY WELL. WE SHALL PROCEED WITH MY GAME. OF TOYING WITH YOu.  
TT: What am I drawing for you, man?  
uu: I WANT YOu TO DRAW ME SOME PICTuRES. OF A FAVORITE “PAIRING” OF MINE.  
TT: More tame hand holding? Yawn.  
uu: IT WILL BE A LITTLE MORE THAN THAT, STRIDER.  
TT: What, like you and me or something?

                Why did you just type that.

uu: OH HO. DO I HEAR A SuGGESTION FROM THE ARTIST HIMSELF?  
uu: VERY WELL.  
uu: DRAW uS. YOU AND ME. IN ASSORTED DEBASEMENTS. AS I DIRECT YOu.  
TT: No problem.

                This is going to be a long conversation and you’re actually really excited about it.


	48. Citations, Notes, Additional References.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although Override was completed on 10/29, I forgot to give a full citation/reference list for the piece (as is my tradition for longer works). In case you were wondering what the heck I was referencing or working with, here's a list! Thank you again for reading! <3

  * The entire work is inspired by Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker, in which the Joker makes  computer program that re-writes a host body’s personality and eventually his DNA.
  * .gz is a special kind of compression file that gets used to compress very, very large files. It seemd appropriate for AR to use it.
  * Caliborn’s quirk slowly seeps into Jake’s typing as early as Chapter 8.
  * Jake saying the headache he has in chapter 8 is a “set of unending annoyances” is a reference to Caliborn’s username; “umbrage” means an annoyance.
  * Caliborn being an excellent coder is a reference to Lord English being stored on a server.
  * Jake’s _chapter narration_ starts to show signs of Caliborn’s quirk in chapter 13.
  * Dirk’s comment about Jake having a nurse fetish is a reference to The Dark Knight, in which the Joker dresses as a nurse working in Gotham Hospital.
  * The interpretation of Hope powers relating the power of belief and reality altering was based on several fan theories on tumblr that are generally accepted and agreed upon.
  * The body-swapping scenes before Caliborn assumes complete control were originally planned to be much longer and much more graphic, including Jake threatening (and trying) to harm himself so Caliborn couldn’t touch Dirk, and Caliborn leaving more eerie messages for Jake on his body.
  * The times Jake writes down to keep track of the blackouts are references to story arc numbers in universe.
  * Sticking Jake in a Tomb Raider world is a reference to Jake’s interest in adventures and Lara Croft Tomb Raider, as well as a reference to Lord English’s Egyptian motif.
  * Caliborn’s narration uses English/Commonwealth punctuation conventions in accordance with his quirk when he is completely in control of the body; Jake’s uses American conventions.
  * Caliborn calling himself the "Lord of the Divine Abode" is a Biblical reference to the Gospel of Luke. "Lord of the Divine Abode" is one of the debated/academically accepted translations of "Beelzebub," another name for the Devil.
  * Caliborn and Lil Hal’s conversation in chapter 19 makes reference to the Gospel of Luke, specifically, Luke 1:38.
  * Caliborn’s attempt to type like Jake still doesn’t match Jake’s quirk entirely.
  * The Tomb Raider chapters took days to research because they are based on and written to be near mirror-images of the sections of King Tut’s tomb. If you look up the antechamber, burial chamber, and treasure rooms of the Boy King’s tombs, you will be able to see actual parallels in what Jake sees and finds in his dreamscape.
  * The italicized opening to Chapter 25 is a rap for Dirk to get an item from his sylladex. The original version of this had more Dirk raps in other scenes, but I am not very confident in my rap skills. (Heh.)
  * Fight Club was intentionally chosen as the movie they watched because of Caliborn’s circumstance of being one of two personalities in a shared body, akin to the narrator and Tyler Durden.
  * Jake discovering information in the ruins is a reference to Jake being able to hold so much in his dream scape in canon and therefore get more information.
  * Jake’s behavior in the Strife scene is meant to show a class inversion (that is, until he calms down). Instead of acting like a **Page of Hope** , someone who passively exploits hope, he is acting like a **Thief of Rage** , stealing Caliborn's "rage" and acting like him.
  * The whited out text in the final chapter, yet again, is a reference to “Sleep Tight” by Laughablyuninmportant.
  * I actually ship dirkuu. <3
  * Other ships with subtext in here:  Caliborn/auto-responder, RoxyUU, Jakeuu blackrom (which apparently gets called “Skullfucking”?), and maybe a little Jake Jane.



Thank you for reading!


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